THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
557 : 
filttarg Utistrilanij, 
LITTLE PHIL. 
BY MBS. HELEN RICH. 
“ Make me a headboard, mister, smooth and painted, 
you see; 
Our ma she died last winter, and sister and Jack and 
me 
Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new 
graves about. 
And Bud cried out * 'We've lost her,’ when Jack jrave a 
little shout. 
We have worked and Raved all winter—been hungry, 
sometimes, I own— 
But we hid this much from father, under the old door- 
stone. 
lie never goes there to see her: he hated her; scolded 
Jack 
When he. heard ur talking about her and wishing that 
she’d come back. 
But up in the garret wo whisper, and have a good time 
to cry. 
Our beautiful mother who kissed us, and wasn’t afraid 
to die. 
But on that she was forty, in November she went 
away. 
That she was the best of mothers, and we havn’t for¬ 
got to pray; 
And we mean to do as she taught us—be loving and 
true and square. 
To work and read, to love her, till we go to her up 
there. 
Let the board be white, like mother,” (the small chin 
quivered here,) 
And the lad coughed something under, and conquered 
a rebel tear, 
“ Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar ami 
thirty cents, 
The rest he’s got for coal and flour, and partly to pay 
the rents." 
Blushing the white lie over, and dropping the honest 
eyes, 
“ What is the price of headboards, with writing and 
handsome size ?” 
“Three dollars?” A young roe wounded, just falls 
with a moan, and he 
With a face like the gho it of his mother, sank down on 
his tattered knee, 
“.Three dollars ? and we shall lose her, next winter the 
rain and snow?" 
But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled the 
head of tow 
Close up to the great heart’s shelter, aud womanly tears 
fell fast— 
“ Dear boy, you shall never lose her; O cling to your 
sacred past! 
Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, and 
the board shall bo 
The best that this shop can furnish; then come here 
and live with me." 
*■»■»»• 
When the orphans loaded their treasure on the rugged 
old cart next day. 
The surprise of a footboard varnish, with all that 
their love could say; 
And “Edith St. John, Our Mother! baby Jack gave 
his little shout, 
And Bud, like a mountain daisy, went dancing her 
doll about 
But Phil grew white and trembled, and close to the 
boss ho crept. 
Kissing him like a woman, shivered aud laughed and 
wept;. ,(. 
“Do you think, my benefactor, in heaven that she’ll be 
glad ?” 
“ Not as glad as you are, Philip, but finish this job, 
lay lad." [Boston Transcript. 
-- 
THE SCANDALOUS LETTER. 
[Complete in Ten Chapters,] 
Miss Elizabeth tried to look sympathetic. She 
was almost forgetting her hatred of the actress, 
and her desire of hopelessly blackening her char¬ 
acter, In the Intoxication of the present Interview. 
“ But very soon after that,” the little lady was 
going on, “while Jack was abroad, and poor 
Olive was hiding from us all and struggling on In 
her profession, I met Ernest—my husband—and 1 
forgot all about the money. I wonder people ever 
trouble themselves about such trifles, don’t you? 
It Is all Jack’s now, but I have Ernest and my 
baby-boy—oh, Miss Yorkc”—Lady Tempest clasped 
her little hands In their long fawn-colored gloves— 
“ you should see my boy! Wo have called him 
Ernest Dacre. and he is as brown as a berry, and 
has great gipsy-black eyes, and light curls all 
over hls head, and six teeth already! Just think 
of It—six teeth, and he 13 only eight months old! 
Nurse says It Is perfectly wonderful!” 
“ Dear mu, my lady V' ejaculated Miss Elizabeth, 
who was not easily interested in babies, but who 
made an exception In favor of such an aristo¬ 
cratic Infant. “ He must be a sweet, little fellow 
indeed 1" 
The happy youDg mother laughed and blushed, 
“ I tell my cousin he ought to be very graterul 
to me for coming away from him. and from Ern¬ 
est and silverdale, just when the trees are bud¬ 
ding so beautifully too! But, 1 would do more 
than that to make Jack happy. Uo is such a 
dear good old fellow, and he Is head over ears In 
love with Miss carew. Not that that Is at all 
surprising. I remember her as being quite a 
beauty, and Jack says she. is perfectly well-bred." 
Miss Elizabeth's Ideas were undergoing a rapid 
revolution. True, her dislike of Olive remained 
unchanged, as It would remain until her dying 
day ; but, It the actress was looked upon as a de¬ 
sirable connection by such people as Lady Tem¬ 
pest and her cousin, why should she not he 
equally desirable lor Dr. Yorkc ? The marriage 
would certaluly lead to a very agreeable intimacy 
between their family and “ the Tempests,” and 
then what a chance there would be of settling 
In life! 
“You are aware, my lady, I presume,” Miss 
Yorke began, reddening, “ that Miss Carew Is en¬ 
gaged to my brother ? indeed, it Is In consequence 
of some little quarrel between t hem—a mere lov¬ 
ers' quarrel, your ladyship—that olive has thoughr, 
fit to give us all this anxiety.” 
“ Engaged to your brother! Impossible 1” cried 
Lady Tempest, rising dismayed. “ I beg your 
pardon, I mean that Jack declares he has never 
released her from her promise to him, so how-” 
“Dr. Yorke has explained everything to me, 
Flossy,” pul in Colonel Dacre, advancing towards 
the two ladles at that moment. “ You see, here is 
the poor child's letter In which she asks his pardon 
for some hasty words she spoke to him at parting, 
and declares that, it will be useless to seek her, as 
she has resolved never to marry.” 
“Of course—never to marry Dr. Yorke!” cried 
Lady Tempest naively. “ All we have to do now, 
Jack, Is to find out where Olive is. The rest will 
be like the finish to the old nursery stories.” 
“If I can be of any service to Miss Carew,” said 
Robert Yorke, who was looking very wan and hag¬ 
gard, “ she may command rne to the day of my 
death. She Is a noble and bcautirul young crea¬ 
ture who has been grievously wronged by me and 
by my family—and I would ask her pardon on my 
knees.” 
Mias Elizabeth tossed her head, She did not like 
the stiffness with which Colonel Dacre saw lit, to 
hear himself towards her, nor was she slow to 
observe that since the Doctor's speech Lady Tem¬ 
pest was following her cousin’s lead. 
“ I will ask you to communicate with me, Dr. 
Yorke, should you ever obtain a clue to Miss Ca- 
rews address,” said Jack Dacre, shaking hands 
with the Doctor heartily enough at parting, “The 
little woman of the house keeps the secret so well 
that I suspect she does not know it, the manager 
ot the theatre Is no better Informed, but It will be 
hard If by dint of perseverance and patience I do 
not, send yon some good news. Now, Flossy, if 
you are ready, I will put you Into the carriage, 
child, and Lake you back by the next train to that 
turbulent young gentleman at silverdale.” 
And so ended Miss Elizabeth’s hopes of an aris¬ 
tocratic connection for her niece. A very frigid 
little bow from Lady Tempest brought the Inter¬ 
view to a close, and In turlous silence Miss Yorke 
followed her nephew out of the house, and through 
the little Iron gate, which Robert Yorke was not 
to see again for nearly a year. 
“What a dreadful woman!” said Jack Dacre 
with a shudder, us he drove away with his cousin. 
“ To think of my beautiful, sensitive Olive breath¬ 
ing the same air as that ogress in red and green 
ribbons!” 
“Oh, Jack, don’t be hard upon Miss Y'orke!” 
pleaded little Lady Tempest. “ I am so sorry for 
her, though she would smile so painfully and call 
me * your ladyship,’ I could not help wondering 
as I looked at her what, It must be like to grow old 
as she has done.” 
“Flossy, child, your sentiments are noble It 
somewhat Incoherent, and your expressions are 
correct, my little cousin.” colonel Dacre, whose 
face had been radiant, with hopeful determination 
ever since Ids conversation with the Doctor, took 
little Lady Tempest’s hand and kissed It. “ You 
must help me to convert Olive. How would you 
like to see her wittier away into old maidenhood, 
when she might have a Jack of her own Instead ?” 
“The idea is ridiculous, Jack! A lovely girl 
like that 1” 
“Sol think." 
“ Only And her, dear, and l promise you there 
shall be a wedding at Silverdale as soon as the 
dressmakers will permit!” 
“Ah, yes—lind her!” echoed Jack, becoming 
suddenly grave. “ Who shall say when a nd where 
that will come to pass ? My poor sweet foolish 
love!” 
CHAPTER IX. 
A piano, painfully audible through the thin 
wall, and much In need of tuning, broke out with 
a distorted variation on the “Keel Row,” played 
over and over again with maddening per¬ 
sistence, and a complacent, repetition of the same 
mistake In t he same bar ea«h t ime. The girl who 
had been pacing the floor of her small room, book 
in hand, and trylug -not to study the part of Rosa¬ 
lind, for that she had not time, but—to hammer 
the mere words Into her head as soon as possible— 
the tall pale girl In her black gown, stopped In de¬ 
spair, and pressed her hands to her temples, 
“First, the organ la the street, and now my 
neighbor's dally practice,” she sighed, too thor¬ 
oughly dejected to smile at the hideous uolse. “ I 
dou’t. know whether it Is for want of sleep or not, 
but i am afraid 1 am ‘ losing my study.’ I cannot 
keep a sentence) In my head to-day for live min¬ 
utes together.” 
once more she took up the book and paced the 
floor, 
“Alas, the day! What shall I do with my doub¬ 
let and hose V What did lie when thou saw’st him? 
What said he? How looked he? Wherein went 
he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? 
Whore remains he? How parted he with thee? 
And when shalt thou see him again? Answer 
me to one word,” she repeated in a dull, mechani¬ 
cal fashion, whde the piano kept on relentlessly, 
and the shouts of children at play beneath the 
window la the narrow street, outside—sounds 
which might have been pretty and suggestive at a 
distance or in a green country lane—mingled dls- * 
t.ractlngly with the abominable strains. 
There was very little Are In the grate, although 
the March afternoon was gray and chill, and the 
111-llttlng sashes rattled drearily with every gust 
of wind; but Miss Charter Is, ot the Theatre Royal, 
Grlmlham, had not time to feel cold, and the deli¬ 
cate hoy who lay on the sofa was covered warml) 
with a great woolen shawl. On a little table at 
his elbow were a bunch of wallflowers in a mug 
and a few grapes, and the actress, as she paced 
softly up and down, stopped from time to time to 
sec If the boy was still asleep, and to pass her 
handkerchief across his forehead. Aud then she 
resumed her weary walk and her part, and the 
words—Rosalind's arch gracious words—seemed to 
set themselves to t he tune that resounded strident¬ 
ly from next door and to dance In her brain In an 
unseemly fashion. 
“ 1 hope 1 am not going to ho HI,” she thought at 
last, sinking heavily Into a chair. “ What will be¬ 
come of us If I am ?” Burying ber pallid face in 
her hands, the actress prayed In feverish, broken 
words that she might be spared this great afflic¬ 
tion, since there was no one but herself to work 
for the child who had been entrusted to her by 
their dead mother. 
It had been easy to change “Miss Olive Carew ” 
Into “ Miss Charterls” In the play-bills, but In so 
doing the poor little straggling actress, who 
sought to conceal her whereabouts from her two 
lovers, had at the same time lessened her chances 
of obtaining good engagements by sacrificing 
what little prestige attached to her own name. 
Besides this, she had purposely avoided the more 
Important towns, where she was more likely to be 
traced, so that her resources, never very large, 
had been painfully cramped for months after her 
flight from Woolchester. This would have mat¬ 
tered little to her It it had not been for Nelson’s 
health, which, even Olive was obliged to admit to 
herself with a dreadful sinking of the heart,, began 
to fall rapid!)' under the privations which for some 
time had little or no effect on her own blooming . 
and vigorous frame, 
“ I must not be 111,” she thought, shuddering, as 
again and again the words of the part escaped her 
and danced In maddening fashion to the rhythm 
ot her neighbor's piano. “ Heaven will not make 
me suffer such punishment as that for my fault l 
I did wrong—I know It, now. T committed a sacri¬ 
lege against love In promising to marry Dr. Y'orke, 
even for Nelson's sake, and all this misery has 
come of it. I confess that I was worldly, and dis¬ 
loyal to Jack, and ungenerous to poor Robert, but 
— 1 must not be 111—that would be too horrible!” 
The book fell to the ground and the actress started 
to her feet with a long, despalriug breath. “I 
must go out,” she thought, going to the. window 
aud looking at the dreary sky and the dust swirl¬ 
ing along the street. “I must take my ‘part’ 
somewhere away from the sound of that piano. 
Nelson won’t miss me for half an hour—he is sleep¬ 
ing so soundly. Bless my darling!" 
The boy did not stir as she kissed him and stole 
out of the room ; and so, putting on her hat, and 
a jacket which was far too thin for so bleak a day. 
Miss Charterls shut the little hall-door n olselessly 
behind her, and made her way, “ part” in hand, 
through the swarms of children at play In the nar¬ 
row street. There was a stunted little park at 
some distance from the town. It stood on a hill, 
and was usually deserted, as Olive had discovered, 
at that hour of the day, so she turned In that di¬ 
rection. The wind blew through her thin gar¬ 
ments, chilling her to the boue ; the dust blinded 
ber: but she thought, with a .dull sense of relief, 
that with every step she was leaving the “ Keel 
Row” farther behind, and that under the bare 
brown trees on the hill there were solitude and 
silence <it least -two boons utterly unknowu in 
Chapel Place. If she could be bpjierself for an 
hour, the girl thought teverlshty, perhaps that 
horribly tight band round ber forehead, would 
give way, and she would think and remember and 
study again. 
Tbe little park seemed like a b'aven of rest 
therefore, as It loomed above her stiff and sad and 
square, against the colorless sky, and, though she 
felt very tired, and her knees seemed to bend very 
strangely under her as she walked, Olive strug¬ 
gled on-stlU holding her “part” in her hand- 
through the sordid outskirts of the tow#, and up 
the billy road, where the wind'rubbed down to 
meet her, whistling sharply, and the.sleep ascent 
took away her breath. Half-way up the htll she 
was compelled to stop and recover herseir. There 
was a big gray stone by the road-side, and on this 
she sat down, and then tried to fasten back her 
hair, which was blowing across her face and get- 
lingluto her eyes. Asshe lifted her bands, agreat 
gust came rushing by, aud carried the “ part" 
from her lap. and blew It half-way down the hill 
sht had just climbed, it. was nothing very seri¬ 
ous. A year ago Olive would have laughed, and 
run a race with the wind for her book. But now 
she stood and looked after It, her poor thlu gown 
fluttering and flapping dlsmaliy, and her long hair 
streaming before her face, and she felt very 
wretched indeed. 
“ I must go and look for It,” she sighed—“ I don't 
know a line of the last act yet. I hope It won't 
blow all the way back to Chapel Place.” As the 
girl turned to begin the descent of the hilly road, 
she saw that some one was coming towards her 
from the town. “I will wait,” she thought, sitting 
dowu wearily upon the big stone. •* Perhaps he 
will pick It up and bring It with him.” And she 
drew her thin jacket closer round her for the 
wind was blttor cold, and her teeth were chatter¬ 
ing. 
The man who was coming towards her must 
soon pass. Yes; there was Ids hat just showing 
above the hedges—and such a loDg, ruddy beard, 
like Jack’s—and gray clothes like Jack’s. Ah, if 
It were only Jack, he would bring her the book! 
But Jack was far enough away from Grludham, 
thank Heaven t Jack would never know how hard 
she had tried to study that “ part," and how her 
head was aching, and how the wind was deadening 
her with cold, numbing her hands and her brain 
too, and— Now she could hear the man's foot¬ 
steps on the stony road, and there he was coming 
round the little turning in the path. 
Miss charterls stood up, ready to claim her book 
should she see it in the hands of the stranger, and 
then—her Ups began to quiver and ber eyes to di¬ 
late, her breath grew short and hurried. 
“Oh, Colonel Dacre," she said, piteously, “the 
wind has blown my book away, and 1 dou t know 
one line of the last act yet!”—with which speech 
the poor child burst into tears, and sank dowu on 
her stoue again, sobbing as if her heart would 
break. 
Jack Dacre, kneeling down In the grass by her 
side, took her bodily Into his arms, and the “ part ’ 
went blowing unheeded back to Chapel Place, 
“ U, last! At last!’ was all the young man 
coifld say, when presently, the storm of team 
which had mercifully been granted to olive having 
worn Itself out, the two were walking homewards 
along the bleak hlll-slde. “Olive, have I really 
found you at last?” 
Olive flushed, and drew her head up with a little 
of her old spirit. 
“ You had no right to look for me," she said, 
withdrawing her hand from her lover’s clasp. “ I 
am very glad to see you, of course, and you must 
come home and see Nelson, of course; hut after 
that—” 
“After that ?” Interposed the young man, whose 
heart yearned more fondly than ever to the poor 
child, us hts qntek eye took In all the pathos ot her 
faded beauty and miserable garments, and the 
sacred lines which love and pain had traced upon 
her face, “ After that, darUng?” 
“You wffl go away, Colonel Dacre,” returned 
Mias carew, firmly, in a voice still husky from 
sobbing. “ I am sorry—It Is all very wretched and 
unhappy—but I cannot help It, and we must say 
good-bye again." 
“Why?” asked Jack Dacre, with angelic pa¬ 
tience. “ You will give mo some reason, dear, at 
least, for your persistent cruelty?” 
“ Would you like Dr. Yorke to think,” she said, 
with quivering lips, “that. 1 broke off my engage¬ 
ment. with him only because—because my old 
lover had come back, and I was glad to seize upon 
the flrst pretext for a quarrel?” 
“olive, he doubted. Insulted you—he—” 
“ He was very good to me and to Nelson before 
that, and—oh, .Jack, can't you see that I owe It to 
my own self-respect not to marry at. all, as I will 
not marry him? I did wrong, and I am punished. 
I have made you suffer, too, and I am sorry; but 
I-I cannot marry any one—my life belongs to 
Nelson—and so we must say good-bye again—that 
is all.” 
f?he was nearly breaking down again, but Jack 
Dacre took no notice. 
“That is your only reason, Olive?” he asked, 
gently, as ho stopped tn the lonely road and took 
her hands In both hts own. “ Your love for me 
has not changed? You would be my wife—I have 
waited four years already, dear [—If the spectre 
of Dr. Y'orke’s bad opinion of you did not stand 
between us 7 ” 
Olive’s tears answered him. 
“ Darling,” cried the young man, catching her 
eagerly to his heart, “swear It to me here now, 
and we need never say good-bye! Dr. Yorkc was 
married a week ago to his cousin, and I am the 
bearer of his very humble and contrite apologies 
to you for the wrong he did you, and of his wishes 
for your happiness In the life you are going to 
begin with me.” 
“ Jack—oh, Jack, Is It really true?” 
As true as that I am going to take you and Nel¬ 
son to Silverdale to-morrow, and that the man¬ 
ager must find some one else to study that part— 
as true as that I have won the sweetest, truest, 
most loyal wife that ever man was blessed with, 
and that I am going to kiss you, my beautiful 
proud cold Miss Charterls, on this hill, and In the 
presence or all Grlndham that cares to see us. 
Yes, and not once, but twenty times!” 
Miss Charterls submitted, with a blush and a 
smile that made her look once more like Olive Ca¬ 
rew, and hand in hand the lovers walked on 
towards the town. 
CHAPTER X. 
It was nearly a year after Miss Carew left Wool¬ 
chester before Robert Y'orke saw the house with 
the Iron gate again, and then he had been mar¬ 
ried for some weeks. 
Dr. and Mrs. Y'orke had spent their honeymoon 
In London, which place had been chosen by the 
bride on account of the shops, all places being 
alike to the Doctor, who made but a sober-faced 
lover, Woolchester thought. A whirl of shopping 
and sight-seeing was what the Doctor’s wife of¬ 
fered him for an aching heart, and he went 
through it with patience, remembering that he 
need not suffer such an ordeal more than once, 
but would be free at the end ot the happy month 
to return to the hard work which was all he cared 
much about now. 
It was on a mild April evening that Dr. and Mrs. 
Y'orke came home to Woolchester. to be received 
with grim delight by Miss Elizabeth, who had pre¬ 
pared an elaborate dinner, to which the bride 
alone did full Justice. The ladles had so much to 
say to each other about the new style of bonnets, 
and the costumes ot the Princess of Wales, whom 
Gertrude had seen twice—once at the Opera and 
once in the. park — that the Doctor's silence 
was not noticed during the meal. And when he 
had drunk his coffee, and said that he had some 
business to attend to, and would go out for half 
an hour, though Gertrude pouted, as became the 
Interesting young wife, she was not sorry at. heart, 
but drew her chair closer to aunt Elizabeth’s, and 
prepared for an exhaustive chat. 
“ Don't, be late, Robert,” she said, as her hus¬ 
band stooped down to kiss her cheek; and then he 
was free to go. 
The Doctor lit his cigar In the hall—it was al¬ 
most dark now In the quiet streets—and prepared 
to attend to the “ little business” be hadspokeu of. 
And so it was that he found himself at the Iron 
gate again, and once more saw the old house u ith 
the trees growing above the red-tiled roof. The 
hall-door was open. Strange children were play¬ 
ing on the neglected grass-plot. The sharp con¬ 
tinuous click of a sewiDg-maehtne sounded from 
the room where Nelson’s piano used to stand. A 
woman's shrill voice laughed Inside. And only a 
year ago that quaint little house had been a para¬ 
dise to Robert Yorke. He had listened In that 
dusky parlor to the high thoughts of poets, and 
heard the Immortal Ideas of the old composers 
translated on tbe jlngUng “ music box” on which 
the boy used to play. In that houso he had lived 
all he had ever known ot youth In his busy life of 
forty years, and now-The shrill voice laughed 
again, and some one called to tne children who 
wore storing at the dark tall stranger, and won¬ 
dering ,That he could want. 
With a sigh the Doctor lifted hl3 arms from the 
gate, and turned away down the darkening street, 
and past the church where the organ had played 
on that Sunday' evening long ago—a year ago— 
aud so out by the deserted lanes to the old happy 
