•Hp, Jbttdies floral ^u-feiaet Pictorial Kame 
lamimaian. 
“No; I hardly think it will go the length of brain 
fever. There are some ugly symptoms, but the leeches 
will likely check them. The young lady must have had 
some kind of a shock ; bad news from home, perhaps. I 
understand she don’t belong round here.” 
. *'Oh, no.” returned Winnie, positively. “ nothing of the 
sort. I think she has got some malarial poison in her sys¬ 
tem. She has been nursing a sick boy down in a cottage 
by the lake where it is damp and unhealthy.” 
“Oh! ah!” returned the shrewd, farmer-like doctor. 
“ I never knew malaria to produce just such effects; but 
I will call again this afternoon. Be particular to apply 
the ice, and give the medicine as ordered.” 
Bradley stood rigid and motionless until his cousin had 
accompanied the doctor to the door, and then she turned 
and-approached him with a half timid air quite new to her. 
“ Have you heard about poor Virgiuie? You know she 
was taken very bad down at Fluster's. We brought her 
home in a high fever, and at times she is dreadfully deliri¬ 
ous. I felt sure she was killing herself, and I tried to 
make her come away last night; but she was dreadfully 
perverse. I never knew her so before. It was this eom- 
iug on.” 
Bradley felt such a grip upon his heart he could not 
speak, but he was conscious of making au almost super¬ 
human effort at self control. 
“ Does tho doctor think her in danger? ” 
“ 1 e’i, lie thinks there is danger, but lie is more encour¬ 
aging than wo con'd expect. She is so young perhaps she 
may throw off the brain trouble in a few hours.” 
Bradley’s manner was colder and more impassive than 
before, as he said, “Had I not better go and summon a 
doctor from Deunport ?” 
“ No, 1 think not,” returned Winnie. “ Dr. Rudd is said 
to be quite skillful. Papa hated the whole tribe, and would 
not let one of 1 hem into the house, and I have never been 
sick in my life; but somehow ho has inspired me with 
confidence, lie says if there is not a decided change for 
the better by to-morrow morning, ho will call a consulta¬ 
tion of physicians." 
“ Let mo know if I can be of any service,” said Bradley, 
as ho hurried away, feeling that he could bear up no 
longer. This new and consuming anxiety had obliterated 
every other thought. 
Winnie was vexed with him for receiving the news so 
coldly. 
“ lie looks fagged to death,” she thought, “but lie has 
no more heart than a stone.” However, she had reason 
to change her mind, for though Bradley was obliged to 
turn away to hide his anguish of heart, when lie had re¬ 
covered a litile from the shock ho could do nothing but 
wait and watch for his cousin’s emergence from the sick¬ 
room to get reports of Virgiuie’s condition. His whole 
manner had changed. It was so gentle, so humble, that a 
new hope fluttered in her heart. Surely, they were draw¬ 
ing a little nearer to each other. Bradley, though his face 
was haggard, had never seemed so kiud as on that clay, 
and the next, when the whispered conferences were going 
on about tho 1 tail aud staircases. 
The poor girl’s delirium was at its height, but she was 
very gentle and pathetic—in fancy wandering with her 
dead mother over the Alpine pastures, gathering harebells, 
and listening to tho bleat of flocks, and the song of birds. 
She was away back in her happy lost childhood, and spoke 
only in French, sometimes singing snatches of the songs 
her father ha.l taught her. Bradley heard these bursts of 
delirious singing as lie hung about the passage, or set his 
door open to listen. He was reduced to a pitiable and ab¬ 
ject stato of misery, and sometimes he secretly waylaid old 
Nanna on her way to arid from the sick-room. The old 
darkey shook her head, and her eyes were full of tears: 
“De pore lam’is mighty bad, Mass’r Bradley; but de 
Lord transposes, and I’so prayin’ for her powerful strong. 
De Lord can hear old black Nauna. He’s no suspecter of 
■pussons, an’ I lieber prayed in faith, believin’, dat I didn’t 
git an answer shore, for, honey, I alius prays ‘ de Lord's 
will be done.’ au’ whichever way it turns, it’s de Lord’s 
will; don’t ye seo clat, honey.” 
The hours wore on without any perceptible change. The 
doctor came and stayed most of tho night. He was con¬ 
fident a favorable crisis would occur in the morning. 
Bradley never knew how he got through the time. He 
sat up all night in his dark room, ill with anxiety and ’ 
dread, and constant smoking only made him worse. A 
slight nausea stole over him, and just at daybreak he crept 
out into the fresh air. The sunrise was sweet and calm, 
shining goldenly through the bare trees. 
He wandered about without aim or purpose through the 
paths, not knowing or caring where he went, when he saw 
Edgar Swayne ride up to the stable-yard gate and dis¬ 
mount. Everything had been swept from Bradley’s mind 
by the crushing anxiety and suspense of the past day ; but 
now as he saw the stern light in Edgar's eye, their inter¬ 
view at the mine came rushing back upon his memory, and 
he advanced to meet him. 
The question came abruptly and without preface, “ Mr. 
Halcourt, did you send the message I intrusted to you for 
the sheriff of Deanport ? ” 
“No: I did not ?” 
“Will von please to explain, sir, why j-ou did not?” 
“No,-I cannot do that,, at least not at present. I owe 
I you an apology for what may appear strange conduct, and 
that apology, full and ample, you shall have in time. At 
present I must allow you to think of me what you please. I 
can only say that I withheld the message in order to pro¬ 
tect an innocent person.” 
“ And I can tell you that your conduct has been basely 
dishonorable,” cried Edgar. “You have connived at the 
escape of a criminal, and are answerable to the law. I 
had everything prepared for the capture of that man, the 
leader of the gang that has infested this neighborhood, 
and you have defeated me for reasons best known to 
yourself. But all who have had a hand in this thing 
shall yet be brought to justice. I have tracked that man 
through all his aliases—Dr. Walters, Charles Meadows, 
Long Andrew, aud he has been notorious through them 
all.” 
“ Aud his real name,” said Bradley, eyeing him, and not 
allowing a sign of emotion to escape. 
“ His real name I do not yet know; but I shall find it 
out.” 
Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike him, and he 
turned squarely upon Bradley : 
“Perhaps yon may know this man’s true name? ” 
Bradley did not answer. He stood in a quiet attitude, 
one hand thrust into his pocket, and the other holding a 
long-handled meerschaum. Thus they stood, taking each 
other's measure, Bradley pale, Edgar flushed and excited, 
until the latter’s hostility could no longer restrain itself. 
“ If I thought you knew that man’s true name, I would 
force you to reveal it.” 
“ Oh, is that it?” returned Bradley, looking down from 
his broad-shouldered height on the slight, nervous stu¬ 
dent form before him. “ Are you a fighting parson of the 
church militant? I should bate to handle a man of your 
cloth, and a smaller man than myself, too. You see with 
just one blow of my fist I could liurl you into those bushes 
yonder.” 
“ Don’t mind my cloth,” cried Edgar, quite beside him¬ 
self now. “ I will meet you as man to man, as foe to 
foe.” 
Bradley’s placable temper asserted itself more and more 
as Edgar’s wrath was gathering. 
“ No," said he, “ I have no quarrel with you, Mr. 
Swayne. That is all bunkum. I owe you an apology, 
and an explanation which you shall one day have. You 
have heaped some injurious words upon me, aud if you 
think I will bear imputations upon my honor more pa¬ 
tiently than another man, you are mistaken. But you 
are angry, and there is some color for your anger, and I 
will not take advantage of it. A contest of fisticuffs be¬ 
tween us would be too unequal. If you are determined to 
regard me iu the light of an enemy, and wish to attack me, 
you must pop away with a pistol from behind some tree. 
I shall not molest you.” 
Bradley turned on his heel and walked away, triumphing 
as the strong man does triumph who has the advantage of 
coolness and self-control. Edgar before had hated him, 
now his breast seemed full of hissing serpents. He leaned 
a moment on the gate for support, and then almost groped 
his way toward the Hall. Hardly had he entered and 
thrown lnmself upon a sofa, still quivering with rage and 
pain, when Winnifred came flying down the staircase, in a 
white wrapper, and with such a tender glad light in Iter 
eyes, in spite of weariness and watching, as seldom had 
been seen there. Virginie was better; the blessed crisis 
had come. She had fallen into a peaceful slumber, and a 
cool dew of perspiratiou was beading her forehead. 
Winnie had flown down the stairs to find Bradley, that 
she might pour the good news into his sympathetic ear. 
Her cousin’s changed manner, and his gentle kindness had 
made these confidences sweet to her; but in the hall she 
encountered Edgar. 
“ Oh, Mr. Swayne, you will bo so glad to hear that Yir- 
ginie is better. You know how ill she has been. At 
one time we thought her case almost hopeless; but the 
crisis has come and she is asleep.” 
Edgar looked up with a miserably pale, haggard face, 
his eyes blood-shot and burning, and forced himself to say, 
“ I am very sorry she has been so ill.” 
“ It is a blessed thing you were not here during the 
worst,” Winnie returned, “for I see how you hive suf¬ 
fered.” 
Edgar looked at her steadily, entranced by the splendor 
of her eyes. 
“ Miss Braithwaite, what do you mean ? I do not un¬ 
derstand you.” 
“ Mean, Mr. Swayne? Why, nothing, only that I see 
you have been very unhappy about poor Virginie.” 
“ You are laboring under a strange delusion,” said he, 
in a low voice, standing before her, and keeping his eyes 
riveted upon her face in a way that made her very un¬ 
comfortable. 
“ I have not been unhappy about your friend. I did not 
even know that she was ill until you told me.” 
A crimson flood came slowly up and suffused Winnie’s 
face. She was deeply vexed and ashamed that she had 
made this mistake; and, moreover, the young man would 
not take his burning eyes from off her face, while she 
seemed powerless to move. 
“ Miss Braithwaite,”—in the same low voice—“ did you, 
could you, for a moment suppose that I was in love with 
your friend?” 
Winnie, brave as she was, opened her lips, but only 
gasped. There was something impending she would have 
given worlds to avert, and her own little schemes all 
seemed tumbling- about her ears. 
Edgar put his hands over his face for an instant, and 
was trembling visibly. 
“ Oh,” said lie, in a muffled, choked voice, the sentences 
coming out disjointedly, “ I meant to keep silence. I 
vowed I would not speak to you. I have been a fool, or 
something worse, for Ihave forgotten conscience and duty, 
even God himself, in the mad intoxication of ioviug you. 
You can never know how I have suffered, how I have 
struggled with myself. You can have no conception of 
what has gone on within me. Sometimes you have seemed 
to lure me on, and then again you have treated me with 
haughty coldness, almost scorn. But it made no differ¬ 
ence. I could not help worshipping you blindly, lor I only 
lived when I was in your presence. But it was madness 
to suppose I could stay here aud endure the sight of that 
man who is so unworthy of you.” 
“ Have you and Bradley quarrelled ? ” Winnie asked in 
a timid whisper, feeling that the vigor had gone out of her 
strong, young frame. 
“Yes,” he groaned, “we have quarrelled; there can be 
only one long, eternal quarrel between us. I will tell you 
the truth, though you may think I am goaded on by in¬ 
sane, jealous rage: that man is base and dishonorable.” 
Winnie recovered herself instantly, drew up her tall 
form to its extreme height, and said with cold hauteur, 
“ Mr. Swayne, you forget yourself. I will not hear one 
word against my cousin, not one word. You may upbraid 
me, if you will. I have wounded and hurt you wiili my 
teasing, girlish caprices, and my thoughtlessness,” and 
suddenly melting with the tears filling her eyes. “ I beg 
your pardon for tho pain I have inflicted. I could beg it 
on my knees.” 
“Oh, Miss Braithwaite 1 Winnie!” lie cried, in heart¬ 
broken tones. “You will remember some day that I 
would givo my life to save you one pang.” 
Winnie was sobbing passionately; she had utterly 
broken down. 
“ Oh, forgive me, forgive,” sho cried, putting out her 
clasped hands, “if I havo crossed and marred your life. 
It is dreadful to think of.” 
He caught her hands in his, and pressed them fervently 
to his lips. 
“ Oh, Mr. Swayne,” sho went on, in a broken, pleading- 
voice, “if we love truly, and grandly, even though that 
love be unhappy, ought it not to make us nobler? You 
may scorn me for what I have done, but do not go away 
from those poor people up at the mine. They need you. 
Is it not wrong for us to run from our natural and proper 
work because life has not given us what we cry for ? 
Promise me that you will not go.” 
He looked at her with an indescribable expression of 
hopeless misery. 
“I cannot answer now,” said he; “Imust have time to 
reflect,” and he rushed out of the house. 
Winnie fell sobbing upon the sofa and buried her face in 
the cushions. Where was now her self-satisfaction, and 
little cut-and-dried schemes that were to make everybody 
comfortable? It seemed as though the illusions of her 
crude girlhood had been shivered to pieces by one touch 
of passion and truth, and were lying- iu confused fragments 
at her feet. 
(To be continued.) 
Our Tell-Tale Dips.—I have observed that lips be¬ 
come more or less contracted in the course of years, in pro¬ 
portion as they are accustomed to express good humor and 
generosity, or peevishness and a contracted mind. Remark 
the effect which a moment of ill-temper or grudgingness 
has upon the lips, and judge what may be expected for an 
habitual series of such movements. Remark tho reverse 
and make a similar judgment. The mouth is the frankest 
part of the face; it can't in the least conceal its sensations. 
We can neither hide ill-temper with it, nor good ; we may 
effect what we please, but affectation will not help us. Iu 
a wrong cause it will only make our observers resent the 
endeaver to impose upon them. The mouth is the seat of 
one class of emotions, as the eyes are of another; or, rather 
it expresses the same emotion--, but iu greater detail, and 
with a more irrepressible tendency to be iu motion. It is 
the region of smiles and dimples, and of a trembling ten¬ 
derness; of a sharp sorrow, or a full breathiug joy; of 
candor, of reserve, of anxious care, or liberal sympathy. 
The mouth, out of its many sensibilities, may be fancied 
throwing up one great expression into the eye—as many 
lights in a city reflect a broad luster into the heavens. 
—Leigh Hunt. 
•^Tij 
