AUG. 2 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
fttcranj fttisrfUatij, 
CLOUD LESSONS. 
We watched the clouds at close of day: 
A few were white as driven snow, 
And all the rest were black or gray. 
He said: " Some men have souls as clean 
As you white clouds; but well I know 
Such men are. few and far between." 
Asked little Alice, moving near: 
“ Why are those clouds as dark us lead 
So near the hill-top, graudjia deur )" 
“ And why are those that look like leaven 
So far above the rest ?" He said: 
“ White clouds and meu are nearest Heaven.” 
He rose and leaned upon his stall', 
An aged man with pleasant eye. 
And mellow cadence in his laugh. 
The sunshine lingered overhead 
Among the tnoviug shapes; the sky 
Was light, the earth grow dark. He said: 
“ These ever-changing, moving clouds 
Well represent the men we know, 
And faithful pictures of the crowds 
“ That ever change, but never rest, 
Where many come and many go.” 
And then he smiled as if in Jest. 
But as the son sank low and lower 
The white clouds shone with many a ray; 
The rest seemed darker than before. 
He said: “ This picture must decide 
The fate of men ; at close of day 
Only the pure are glorified.” 
[Arid York Observer. 
* - 
THE SCANDALOUS LETTER. 
[Complete in Ten Chapters.] 
chapter hi: 
Miss Carew was alone In her small sitting-room. 
Nelson had gono with the landlady s children to a 
farm house outside the town, and was to come 
back In a spring-cart with a basket of eggs and 
flo we re for Olive. There was nothing to interrupt 
her thoughts us she sat and sewed In the bow- 
wtndow, and the shadows from the trees outside fell 
across her face. It was graver Just then than her 
lover would have liked to see It; it was too patient 
to be the face of a happy woman. To-day Dr. 
Yorke had been urging her to throw up her engage¬ 
ment at the theatre and marry hhn at once, but 
she shrank with a curious dread from granting 
this request; she clung to the lew weeks that re¬ 
mained to her of the happy, careless stage- life, the 
worst trouble of which had been the difficulty of 
making dresses out of nothing, or of struggling 
through the Idle summer months with two mouths 
to mi, 
“ H It were not for Nelson!" she thought. But 
then was It not for Nelson’s sake alone that she 
had consented to forfeit her self-respect, and mar¬ 
ry this sober, kind-hearted country Doctor whom 
she did not love ? 
And for Nelson's sake she would complete the 
sacrltlce, right or wrong—would enter a family 
whose women looked scornfully at her, would lay 
aside her own tastes and desires, and settle down 
to the prosy life of this small town, and spend her 
days In a mild hypocrisy, her best hope being that 
In time she might learn to be contented. But Nel¬ 
son. her darling, should he happy. Under the 
Doctor's constant care, and with the unwonted 
ease aud comfort of a settled home, her boy's 
strength would Increase, lie would grow up tall 
and robust and high-spirited, and have a good 
education, and come home In the holidays so big 
and8unbumt. and hardy, so full of his exploits in 
playground aud In class, that It would atone to 
her for many dull and lonely and regretful days 
that she would have to Uve through meanwhile. 
As Olive was dreaming all tills, A! rs. Alien, her 
kind little landlady, opened the door and breath¬ 
lessly announced “ Two ladles—In a carriage 1” 
and Olive knew that she was about to make the 
acquaintance of her lover’s womankind-knew It 
with a weary sinking at her heart which would 
have Increased tenfold had she known how herce a 
battle had been raging at the tranquil house In 
George Street, on her account, for the past two 
days. 
Miss Yorke, rinding that the announcement of 
her Intention to go aud bury her grief down lu the 
wolds of Lincolnshire met with a calm acquiescence 
from her ungrateful nephew, laid been compelled 
to relent with outward amiability, but with rage 
in her heart, and had consented to call on Miss 
Carew, and to receive her with t he courtesy due 
to the future Mrs. Yorke. But or all this olive was 
happily Ignorant, and letting her sowing fall, she 
advanced Lo meet her visitors—Miss Yorke tall, 
erect, square, in creaking boots aud thick brown 
silk; Gertrude, breathing a little heavily from the 
stairs and a tight corset, dressed in the height of 
the Woulekester inode, and positively rustling with 
expensiveness. 
Miss Carew spoke her pleasant words of greeting 
to them both, and they eyed her beauty and her 
shabby gown with eager unfriendly glances as, 
perfectly unembarrassed, she turned a pile of 
music off one chair, aud a yellow silk dress that 
wanted mending oft another, so as to tlnd seats for 
them. Dr. Yorke had been prevented at the last 
moment from accompanying his aunt, ami In con¬ 
sequence the conversation languished In his 
absence. 
Olive tried bravely “ to make talk,'' but she had 
so ill He in common with her visitors, Gert rude 
employed herself In taking uneasy note or the co¬ 
quettish simplicity of Miss Oft few's well-worn 
gown, and resolved to copy it, lu a bettor material. 
Miss Yorke eyed the actress sourly, as Olive sat at 
the open window, her wonderful ralniess and love¬ 
ly bright hair shining in the yellow afternoon 
light, that streamed In through Hie budding 
branches of the trees, and lit up every nook aud 
corner of the room, Nelson’s piano and flowers, the 
stage-dress on the floor, the litter of “parts,” and 
books and manuscripts on the table. Miss Yorke 
felt, as she looked at them, that she would like to 
sort them all lu square piles, to lay the books at, 
even distances round the table, ftm.l to close the 
lid of Hie piano. What would she have done with 
the flowers, the Innocent pansies aud violets and 
hyacinths, if she had known that Robert, ha/1 paid 
ten shillings for them that very morning ? 
" Don’t you find those rooms very confined 7 f > 
she asked lu her blunt fashion. 
“ 1 suppose they are," responded OUve, smiling. 
“ But T live In so many baronial halls and palatial 
mansions that It Is quite a pleasure to me to tlnd 
myself within these narrow walls again.” 
“ Oh, Indeed 1” Miss Yorke had not an Idea of 
what the girl meant, and began to fancy terrible 
things. 
“ Besides, you can’t Imagine what splendid com¬ 
pany I have received here.” 
‘‘Company?” Miss Elizabeth’s face grew grim¬ 
mer arid grimmer. Gertrude colored. 
“ Yes. Colonel Esmond has done me the honor 
to call several times : Major Dobbin too; and my 
deur Colonel Neweome.” 
“ Those officers are a very dissipated set of men, 
I hear. We do not mix with the military at all.” 
“Not with men of family, like the Marquis of 
Esmond ?” 
“ A marquis!” Gertrude cried, fidgeting uneasi¬ 
ly In her chair. “ IIow dull you will find our life, 
Miss Carew! You will have no gentlemen to speak 
to at all.” 
“ But I like ladles’ society too, when It Is agreea¬ 
ble. Stephen Guest brought Maggie Tulltver the 
other day, and Aurora Leigh often spends an hour 
with me. and Ethel Neweome-" 
“ What! Neweome of High Street—the lawyer 7 ” 
Miss Yorke put In. 
“ No—no,” Olive laughed. “ it Is a shame, hut I 
thought you would understand. I am talking of 
people lu books.” 
“ Oh, In books 1” Miss Yorke drew herself up, 
and her thought was that “ they did not know 
they would meet with such Impertinence when 
they consented to call upon this woman.” “ I look 
upon reading novels as a sad waste, of time,” she 
added sillily. “ It Is a practice Gertrude never In¬ 
dulges In.” 
“ But you arc fond of reading, Miss Fisher?” 
“1 have so little lime—1 do so much fancy- 
work,” Gertrude answered coldly, and without 
returning Miss Curew’s smRe. 
“ Oh, t think women ought to stand up for the 
novel-writers!" Olive continued gaily, finding that 
another of those dreadful pauses was Imminent. 
“ Think how many incomplete lives they help to 
eke out—to how many half-starved fancies they 
ofTer food.” 
“ l have hoard they are very badly paid,” Miss 
Y'orke remarked gravely, In the evident belief that 
she was carrying out Olive’s idea; and Olive gave 
up lu despair, having already exhausted Gertrude’s 
views on the' subject of music, and wondered if 
they would over go. 
“ 1 don’t see your brother here,” Miss Y'orke said, 
when at last she did rise to take leave. “ He Is a 
cripple, I understand.” 
“Nelsonhas a delicate spine,” Olive returned, 
(lushing. “ He Is not a cripple. He Is In the coun¬ 
try to-day.” 
And so, when a formal Invitation to dine In 
George Street had been given and accepted, Miss 
Y’orke’s well-appointed carriage rolled away up 
the quiet little street, to the sincere admiration of 
all the neighbor s children, who were playing on 
the door-steps. When the Doctor came In about 
an hour later, he found traces of tears in Miss 
Carew’s eyes, aud observed that she was absent In 
manner, answering him at random, and listening 
to every sound la the street, until presently the 
roll of wheels stopping at the door sent her flying 
down stairs to catch Nelson In ner arms, crushing 
his Immense nosegay of wall-flowers and polyan¬ 
thuses, and smothering Ids beloved little face with 
passionate kisses. Dr. Yorke heard the boy s weak 
little Joyous chatter all the way up stairs, aud 
Olive’s exclamation of interest In hts recital. 
“ How she loves hhn!" he thought sadly. “What 
a treasure of tenderness that man threw away to 
whom she gave her heart, poor child i” And a 
twinge of Jealousy shot through the Doctor’s big 
frame as he recalled olive's confession in the gray 
old garden walk. 
The month that followed his engagement to Miss 
Carew was the happiest lu Robert Yorke’s life. 
True, he had railed In persuadlug her to quit the 
public career of which he was halt ashamed—on 
that point the actress was obstinate—but It was 
pleasant, nevertheless, to take part in her tri¬ 
umphs over the scanty Woolchester audience; to 
see her face brighten at hts approach; to get that 
swift, demure glance of recognlHon when he made 
his appcarauce la the musty old stage-box he had 
taken for the remainder of t he season; to be al¬ 
lowed to wait for her at ^he stage-door, where the 
young men of Hie company knew hhn quite well 
and would exchange friendly greetings as they lit 
their cigars at the gas and turned their coat col¬ 
lars up round their tlirouts; to be allowed to walk 
home with her through the quiet streets, and to 
kiss her fair little baud at the garden gate, while 
motherly Mrs. Allen held the open door and dis¬ 
creetly studied the starry sky. 
There were formal, comfortable dinners, too, In 
George Street, when olive’s presence seemed to 
transfonmUe familiar old house Into a charmed pal¬ 
ace, echoing with sweet words and laughter. Any 
one a little less frigid and Jealous than Miss Yorke 
must have been won over by the girl's pretty 
ways; but, seeing her power lu the house slipping 
from her hands, and feeling that her nephew's In¬ 
fatuation for the "player-woman” Increased every 
day, the old lady grow grimmer and grimmer, and 
harder and more disagreeable, the more poor OUve 
tried to conciliate her, as the girl did unfailingly, 
for Nelson's soke. Gertrude, looking upon aunt 
Elizabeth as an oracle, was fain to act after her 
behests, and so OUve lost her only chance of a 
friend. 
it was no wonder, the Doctor thought tenderly, 
that her gayety was somewhat forced and feverish 
at times, her temper—which he remembered so 
serene—uneven and fitful, and he silently pledged 
himself to guard her in the future from all such 
cold dislike and ungenerous taunts as now made 
her position with his family a most unenviable one. 
How ho looked forward In those late April days to 
the evening rambles for which he stole ftn hour 
from his work, when Nelson rode a shaggy little 
pony that Olive had consented to accept for his 
use, and they four—the Doctor and his sweetheart, 
Nelson and Jerry—explored every lane and meadow 
near the town, getting home tired and hungry to 
tea In Olive’s lodgings tea drunk out Df thick cups 
and saucers, and accompanied by thick bread-and- 
butter, but free from the sour glances and dis¬ 
agreeable inuendoea which not unfrequentiy fla¬ 
vored the cup that was supposed to cheer at Miss 
Yorke’s well-spread table! At these times OUve 
was her old charming self again; at these times 
the Doctor told himself, with an exulting heart, 
that she was beginning to care for him. She was 
so geuUe; she looked at him with such cordial 
trusting eyes; she appealed to him in so many 
ways for Information or advice—and there was no 
one to toll him that 
“ Uove'H likeness there endures upon all thoso, 
But out of these one Bhall not jrather love.” 
He was walking one evening by Olive’s side over 
the cool short grass, the little hand of his love 
lying Uke a white flower on his dark coat-sleeve. 
It was Sunday, and bells wore ringing sauly across 
the fields, the birds were growing silent In the 
trees and hedges, the budding lanes were tranquil 
and deserted. Miss Yorke had prophesied many 
evil things of her nephew because he had chosen 
to walk with his sweetheart In the April dusk on 
that especial evening, hut Robert was too entirely 
contented to remember anything so disagreeable 
as he wandered dreamlug through that wonderful 
golden land where most have walked at least once 
In their Uves. OUve too was lost In a fit of musing; 
the hand that held a few flowers—found by her 
lover under the hedges—hung down listlessly at 
her side, her eyes were fixed on the evening star 
trembling afar off behind a farm-house that stood 
black and dlstlnet, with its barns and poplar-trees, 
against the faint green west. Not a breat h was 
stirring; not a distant voice or sound broke the 
perfect stillness; and, when presently the Doctor 
laid hts hand across hers and looked fondly down 
at her absent face, Olive started and colored as 
though the hand had been laid upon ber Inmost 
heart, and it shrank from the touch. 
“ How still It Is she said hurriedly. “ I Uke 
these evenings early In the year, when there Is 
something to wish tor, something to look forward 
to. in midsummer, when the grass is ripe and 
tall, aud the trees are In toll leaf and flowers In 
full bloom, I feel oppressed. Even the birds have 
no heart to sing. They are bewildered by the 
color and luxuriance of the July days.” 
“ Y'es, 1 have never thought of It before," Dr. 
Yorke assented. In the puzzled tone of a man not 
given to sentimcntaUzlng. “ But too much happi¬ 
ness Is saddening. Even while I walk here with 
you, 01 c/e, and am not conscious of a single flaw 
in my delight, those tong gray fields and that pale 
green Bky flU me with a sort of melancholy- 
why ?” 
“ All, who knows ?” OUve answered with an air 
of reUer, as If she had dreaded being questioned 
on some other subject. ”It Is a pretty peaceful 
landscape enough, Is it not ? But 
actress lived, Robert Yorke’s heart beating with 
vague uneasiness, and when they reached the Iron 
gate OUve held out her hand. 
“ I will not ask you to come In, Robert,” she said, 
forcing a smile, •• because I—” 
“You wlU aUow me to caU in the morning to see 
how you are?” The Doctor spoke a lltUe stiffly. 
There was an air of mystery about Olive's behav¬ 
ior which displeased him. 
Olive’s pale cheeks flushed as she observed the 
change. 
“You are not angry 7” she said sadly, laying her 
hand with an air of timid appeal un her lover's arm. 
“ I could not be angry with you, OUve; but I 
wtsb you would allow me to prescribe for you If 
you are suffering.” 
| For all answer she stood on tip-toe and—there 
was no one to see In the dusky little street—held 
her lovely face close up to his. And, blushing Uke 
a boy, Robert Yorke bent Ids tall head to take his 
first, kiss from the Ups of beautiful OUve Carew. 
Wlt.U Untiling veins and throbbing pulse be walked 
back by the way they had come together; and so 
absorbed was he In his own blissful thoughts that 
he nearly ran against some one as he turned Into 
High street. Muttering an apology, he looked up, 
and saw the tall man with the red beard who had 
stood on the club-house steps. The stranger looked 
at him carelessly, paused, turned on his heel, and 
walked leisurely off lu an opposite direction. It 
was getting dark now. People were trooping 
homewards along the clean gray pavement; the 
last lingering notes of an organ voluntary sounded 
from a church hard by; Ughts began to twinkle 
in the windows.—[To be continued. 
-» « »- 
RECENT LITERATURE. 
irauoiiH, ny Ai’tmir rs. Croat. Price 76 cents. 
dki.phia ; .1. M. Stoddard & Co. 
rniLA- 
The quaUtyot Max Adler's humor Uke that of 
mercy, la not strained, which Is more than can be 
said of most authors who start out to write a 
humorous book. It Is tolerably easy to be f unn y 
for a few columns, but when the fun has to be car¬ 
ried through several hundred pages, It takes a hu¬ 
morist of the first water to avoid glvlug evidences 
of an “ effort ” to be witty. Mr. Adler belongs to 
this class. His fun Is so spontaneous and jolly, 
that even the veriest churl can not help being 
Infected by It. In “ Random Shots ” we are treated, 
among other things, to an excellent ghost story 
entitled “ Mr. Skinner’s Night In the Under-World.’’ 
The hero, a shrewd, wide-awake American in 
making a tour of Europe, is seized wit h a desire to 
explore Hie Horselberg Mountain, the scene of 
Tannhauser’s wonderful adventures. The common 
sense sort of way in which Skinner conducts him¬ 
self is simply delicious. He finds himself alone 
with a ghost who asks, “ Are you not afraid to 
stand in the presence of the awful spirits or the 
dead?” 
“ No, I’m not 1 Certainly not! you can’t frighten 
me. What are you. anyway 7 Nothing but a Uctle 
bit of vapor or carbonic acid gas, or something. 
’’Afraid 1 I’m not afraid or anything 1 can poke my 
umbrella through, like that and Hint,’’ and Mr. 
Skinner stirred about with his umbrella In the 
middle of the spectre. 
“ It Is strange,” said the spectre with the faints 
est suggestion of embarrassment In Its hollow 
tones, “ we are not used to being regarded with 
such calmness by mere mortaJs.” 
‘So it is, my dear; 
All such tliinya touch secret strings 
For heavy hearts to hear.' ” 
“ But mine Is not a * heavy heart,’ ” Robert 
whispered fondly, with another pressure of the 
little hand on his arm. 
“ What becomes or all these vague little pains 
and longings and regrets, Robert, I wonder? They 
come unbidden, and they go—who knows where?” 
“ Dear, 1 am Jealous of all your regrets. I wish 
I could blot out. every sad thing In your past." 
OUve am fled gravely and shook her pretty head. 
“ That would be to blot out all my past life,” 
she said, “The past Is sorrowful, 1 suppose, be¬ 
cause It is past. Some day, when you and 1 are 
old, we shall walk here perhaps and think of our 
young selves, and tell each other how happy we 
were then; yet now we are conscious of some 
‘ secret string' that has been touched and Is still 
Jarring.” 
“Olive”—the Doctor's light tone changed to one 
of entreaty; he paused In the breezy, deserted 
field, and laid his hands on her shoulders, looking 
down into her fair, upraised face—“Olive, you ore 
not unhappy—you do not regret-” 
Olive turned her head and kissed one of the 
strong, kind hands. 
“ 1 should be the most unthankful woman in the 
world," she sahl earnestly, *• if I were not happy." 
The Doctor sighed; and In silence the lovers 
waited on towards the town. The streets were 
almost empty; church was not yet over; the win¬ 
dows of the houses looked dull and blank. 
“I may come la and see Nelson?” Dr. Y’orke 
asked as they walked along the principal thorough- 
rare, one or two men turning to look at “the pretty 
woman In gTay ” at Ids side. 
"Of course you may, It—” 
OUve broke off with a convulsive start, and, 
looking round surprised as she clung to hts arm, 
the Doctor saw that she was deadly pale, and was 
pulling with trembling Ungers her little spotted 
veil over her face, 
“OUve,” he said, anxiously, “you are 111—what is 
the matter?” 
They were passing the club-house, and on the 
steps a few men were standing in the evening 
light—a stout old gentleman, a chattering lad 
with a smooth face and an eye-glass, and a tall, 
red-bearded man in a suit of gray garments, who 
had a strap over his shoulders aud a railway rug 
In his hand. Dr. Yorke saw that there was a 
movement, in the group as Mtss Carew approached; 
then he turned and spoke to her again, asking her 
if she felt ill. 
“ No,” OUve said faintly, trembling from head to 
foot, “ I am not 111.” 
They turned into the quiet street where the 
“Iknow It!” answered Mr. Skinner; “1 know 
It. People generally are frlghtoued Into fits when 
they think they see a ghost; but I made up my 
mind long ago, that If ever I met one, I was going 
to Investigate him. S’pose we sit down here and 
have a Utt le talk ? I want to ask you, for exam¬ 
ple, how It feels to be a disembodied spirit? 
Never hungry, are you?" The ghost slowly 
shook its head. “Costs you nothing for food; 
don’t nave to buy any clothes; no aches or pains, 
or anything of that kind?” The spectre nodded 
negaHvely. •* I thought not,” said Mr. Skinner, 
“and nothing spout for traveling expenses, either. 
I reckon, now, it you wanted to take a fly over to 
America, you could get there lu a Jiffy. It must be 
rather agreeable, upon the whole, uo taxes and uo 
work to do. But, say, what’s the fact about your 
fellows haunting nouses aud graveyards? Ever 
do any thing of Hie kind ?” 
“ Sometimes,” 
"I wouldn’t have beUeved It two hours ago. 
But what’s the sense of It? What’s the use of 
scaring people with that kind of foolishness ? Why 
don’t you keep off and behave ?” 
Presently Skinner hears a rooster crow. 
“ Halloa! What's that 7 Sounds like a rooster.’’ 
*• It’s a cock crowing outside of us, upon the hill¬ 
top.” 
“Outside, eh? I thought, at first, maybe you 
kept chickens, and It struck me as kind of singu¬ 
lar. I couldn't imagine what a ghost wanted with 
poultry.” 
Later, his ghostly guide introduces Skinner to 
the Hall of Heroes, where gathered about a table 
are a great host of figures. The gutde explains 
that these “ are the Immortal parts of men whose 
deeds upon earth have made their fame eternal,'’ 
and he points out Arthur aud the Knights of the 
Round Table, Charlemagne, and a few other ce¬ 
lebrities. Skinner despite the remonstrances of 
the ghost, seats hlmseir at the table, and present¬ 
ly rising, be essays a speech. After giving his 
august hearers a little of the current news of the 
day, he proceeds to say 
“ However, the matter to which 1 wished princi¬ 
pally to allude, Interests you more directly. I say, 
frankly, that until I dropped la here, I never had 
any solid faith In the reality of ghosts. 1 regarded 
the whole thing as a mass of superstition. 1 see 
now that I was wrong. But having confessed tins 
much, t think ! ought to say to you, who probably 
have some influence over tUo affairs of your kind, 
that the sooner some ono of you starts an energetic 
I reform in the ghost business, the better will be the 
result. Gentlemen, I am a practical man—a utili¬ 
tarian, it you will—and I must say that It grieves 
| me, when 1 look around upon this grave and dignl- 
