"Well?" I said, inquiringly. She flashed at me the Roscoe diamond. "What does it mean?" I asked. So he meant to leave us in the spring. The prospect was not cheerful. I could imagine Home-nook quite a different place without him, "Marriage, I suppose," she said, with com- and, with Nora gone also, I did not care to pic posure. "And you mean to marry Lloyd Roscoe ?" "Why not, if he does me the honor of asking me?" I thought she was sacrificing herself. I was afflicted with a duty to do. I would be kind, cautious, gentle; but the duty must be done. As a preparatory step I put both arms round her and kissed her. Then I said, trying to be gently reproachful, ture it. Just then, interrupting my gloomy reverie, Mr. Roscoe's carriage stopped at the gate, and its owner handed my sister out and came in with her. Well he might be proud of her, that creature "of spirit, and fire, and dew," with the gem-like sparkle in her eyes, the vivid tints of cheek and lip. She made him send the carriage away, and kept him for the evening. Soon mother came back. Mr. Aytoun roused himself from his abstraction, for which I, guess "I did not think you could be mercenary, ing the effort it must have cost him, honored Nora!" She smiled that beaming, brilliant smile of hers. She always had the sweetest temper in the world. "So you think, Mat, that I am going to marry Lloyd Roscoe because of the position and the wealth he can give me that I am bitten with social ambition, and want to see myself reigning in state in the great gray-stone house ?" I blushed for her, or myself, or both, but I did not answer her question. Then she smiled again and kissed me. "Mat," she said, "you look tired. Let us go to sleep." I read determination in her eyes, heard it in her tones. I knew I could have no influence just then, and I was tired. The next afternoon Mr. Aytoun came into the parlor, where I happened to be sitting quite alone. Mother had gone out, and Nora was driving with Mr. Roscoe. I had a duty to do in Ralph Aytoun's behalf also, and now was my time. I felt sure that he had loved Nora, and in my heart I thought that Nora loved him also, only was determined to be mistress of the Roscoe fortune. It was my duty clearly to let him know how things were going. Gently as I could I hinted at Nora's probable destiny. He kept his face turned away from me, so that I could not see its expression. But his voice sounded unnaturally clear and distinct, I thought, as he asked "Then you really think she will marry Mr. Roscoe?" "Yes," I cried, "unless some one has the will and the courage to prevent it." "But why prevent it?" His tone was provokingly cool. "It seems to me matter of congratulation rather than of despair. I can imagine Miss Nora queening it royally in that old stone palace of his." "A queen crowned with thorns," I cried, driven to desperation. "You know what Nora is. Can you imagine her happy in a marriage without love?" "No," very quietly; and then, a moment after, he said, "I hope she will teach with me next term, we get on so well together. If she will wait till spring I shall be through then, and the new preceptor can find himself a new assistant." him proportionately, and we were a cheery company. That night, in our own room, Nora flashed the Roscoe diamond in my face again with a saucy, defiant smile. "Your fetter," I said, a little tartly; for her manner vexed me. "Yes, my fetter-worn willingly though." Then she came up to me and laid her head against my shoulder, not laughing now, but with a sweet, serious tenderness heightening the beauty of the face upturned to my own. "I would not tell you last night, Mat,” she whispered, "because I had not told him; but -I love him." "love "Love him!" I cried, astounded; Lloyd Roscoe!" "Yes. Is it so strange to you? To me he seems worthy of all love." "And you are sure-sure it is not the stonehouse, or the carriage, or the gold and silver?" Her eyes were full of strange earnestness, almost reproachful, as she answered me: "You must not misunderstand me, Mat. All the rest of the world may misjudge me, but not my sister. I love Lloyd Roscoe himself for himself. I honor him beyond any man I have ever known. If he were landless, penniless, I would marry him still. The nineteen years between his age and mine are no bugbear; just as he is he suits me. He would not suit me the less if he were without a dollar; yet wealth is pleasant, and I shall like to be mis❘tress of the stone-house all the same." I could not after that doubt or mistake her. There was truth in her eyes. I knew that her heart had chosen, and, if the choice seemed strange to me, it was none the less honest and genuine. I kissed her then with a real, heartsome kiss of congratulation; and then I thought how I should miss her, and cried over her as heartily as I had kissed her. The next day I saw Mr. Aytoun alone a moment, and I snatched it to do my sister justice in his estimation. bly. "She loves him," I said. "So I supposed,” he answered, imperturba Certainly he bore his disappointment with heroic fortitude. Nora declared her intention of teaching next term, as she had agreed. Mr. Roscoe remon strated a little, but when he found she was resolved yielded the point with a good grace. I asked her why she persisted, and she told me she wanted to have time to grow familiar with the thought of her new position; to know her lover better, and understand his tastes and ways more thoroughly. Besides, she wanted her next term's wages to buy a fitting wardrobe; and she would not be married till the white roses blossomed-she meant to wear them in her hair. So all things went on much as before, save that every evening brought Squire Roscoe with it. Nora was infinitely bewitching and full of variety. She showed her betrothed all sides of her nature. She jested with him, teased him, laughed at him, and now and then sang him some tender song, that made his pulses thrill to a strange, delicious rhythm, or said some sentence to him so low that no one else heard it, or let him gaze through her dark eyes into the depths of her maiden heart. Mother was thoroughly pleased. Just at first, I confess, she had shared my apprehensions; but when she found how real Nora's love was, she was satisfied. Mr. Aytoun alone seemed changed. At least he withdrew himself a little from our society. He was with us often, and always at such times as lively and pleasant as ever; but he passed a great deal of the time which he used to devote to us alone. He accounted for this by the demands his legal studies made upon him. He was reading law diligently, and hoped to be admitted to the bar in the spring-whether he should practice in Eastbrook or elsewhere being an unsettled question. I accepted this reasonable excuse for his absence—it was true, doubtless-still I could not divest myself of the idea that this reluctance to see my sister and Mr. Roscoe together had something to do with his seclusion. At last the winter term was out-spring came -Nora and Mr. Aytoun alike hung their shepherd's crooks upon the willows, and abandoned to their own devices the young lambs of the Eastbrook academy. In the month of roses Nora was to become Mrs. Roscoe, and preparations were going on with all diligence. In the mean time Mr. Aytoun passed his legal Rubicon, and was ready to commence practice. One day he asked me to walk out with him. I tied on my hat with a vague foreboding. He could bear his grief no longer in silence, I imagined; at last it must find expression. As we walked along under the trees, odorous with May-time blossoms, he began the subject. "I have not been insensible to your sympathy for me, Martha. You have been very sorry for me all winter, I know. I have read it every day in those kind eyes of yours. But I want you to tell me what first made you think I loved Nora." I tried to think, but the chief reason I could call to mind was the inevitable necessity, as it seemed to me, that any one brought within the sphere of Nora's attractions must be subdued by them. He went on, gravely: "Was it any especial attention to her, or was it loss of appetite, or did I keep you awake nights by restless pacings to and fro? Those are the symptoms, are they not?" I saw he was laughing, and it vexed me. "As if I could give you a reason," I cried. "Do not women always know things by intuition? I'm sure I can't tell how I knew it-I only know-” "That Nora is irresistible?" he interrupted me. "To most, perhaps, but not to me. Martha, I never saw one moment in which I wanted to marry your sister Nora." So I had been wasting my sympathy all win ter! "Why not?" I said, a little sharply; "isn't she lovely and winning? Don't you like her?" "Yes, but I don't love her. Did it ever occur to you as possible that any one should love you?" "Not where Nora was," I answered, honestly. "And yet, Martha, seeing you both, it was you I loved, and not Nora. She might dazzle me, but she never would suit me as you could. She is too high-pitched. I am commonplace, perhaps. At any rate, I understand myself and my own wants. I want you. It is for you to determine whether you can love me. You must decide whether I settle here, in Eastbrook, or go away, never to see any of you again." I stood still a moment and tried to understand myself. Never until then had the first thought of his loving me crossed my mind. What did I feel for him? Why had I thought it so impossible that Nora should not have chosen him? Did I want him to stay or go? With the thought of not seeing him any more-of never again hearing that cheery voice or meeting those kindly eyes-a strange pang pierced me, a thrust which brought self-knowledge. "Stay in Eastbrook," I said. "Mother would miss you sadly.” He smiled. I presume it was as much of an admission as he expected. So we were married on the same day, Nora and I. I do not know which bride was the happier. We were both suited entirely. Our differing destinies were just what they should have been. It suited Nora to reign in her stately mansion, to wear diamonds, and glisten in silken raiment. Those things seemed to belong to her, as the bright tints to a humming-bird. They never detracted one particle from the true womanliness of her nature, or mingled one grain of alloy with the pure gold of her love for her husband. But it pleased me better to live with Ralph on the farm-just such a quiet life as my father and mother had lived before us. Only Ralph is a more practical man than my father ever was. At fifty his future will not be unprovided for. My mother lives with us. Nora and I, dearly as we love her, are no longer in need of her; and sometimes I think she is getting ready to leave us-to go where he waits whose presence makes her home. A THE SUNBEAM. SUNBEAM burst through the clouds in the sky, And it burned in the tangled leaves of the vine, It fell on the leaves of the open book, And flooded the pages I read with gold, A web of the richest gold. Swift as an arrow it sped through the wood; There the robin began to chirp and sing; |sion in the early October sunset. For full four weeks the old house had groaned in spirit at the drubbing and scrubbing it had been compelled to go through. Hardly a speck of good oldfashioned cobweb but had been irreverently swept by the merciless broom from its cozy corner; and soap-suds and soda and whitewash had been so outrageously spirted and dashed and swashed into its very face and eyes that the good old mansion hardly knew itself as the fine mouldy, red and white, begrimed and rusty dignitary of so many years. Rachel Watkins, the housekeeper of fifty years' standing, when she heard the day set for the wedding, was seen to sink on the threshold of the kitchen in an attitude of despair, then suddenly to untic her apron, and, binding it around her head, rush wildly to the barrels of soft soap in the washhouse, exclaiming beneath her breath, "Lord a massy, four weeks and no white sand!" The small panes of glass looked like mirrors after the polishing they received at the hands of the From the mountain's brow, where it shone like a crown housemaids, and blinked merrily in the sunlight On the forehead of a king. Oh, beautiful sunbeam, haste not away! What do you there where the diamond shines, In the depths of Golconda's glittering mines? as though conscious of the jolly times to come. The old set of India china was dusted off, the tassels of the window-shades untied from their fat little baggy coverings, the furniture rubbed down and waxed, and the hall floor scrubbed till you would have thought a small snow-storm had fallen-so white and glistening it looked. And through all the bustle and preparation Mildie moved quietly and briskly, putting in a word here and there about pet arrangements, and her good old father smiling and approving all, wishing only one wish to make all perfectly How they fought till the field was heaped with slain, happy-that his honored wife was yet alive to I have read in old tales of the buried past Of two armies, which met on the battle-plain, Roman and Cymbric, in numbers vast; And how all through the day the crimson tide Of battle favored the Cymbric side, Though their dead bestrewed the plain. Till at length from out of the clouded skies Blinding the Cymbrian warriors' eyes, And backward their conquering hosts were hurled- JANIE THOMPSON'S LOVERS. of some half-dozen pleasant notes telling of in- Mildie Faunce and John Graham were married up in Deacon Faunce's great gabled man see the happy bustle. Mildie appeared even more truly to hold the palm as "the belle of the Village" on the oventful evening than ever before; and as she stood in the centre of the old back parlor leaning on her husband's stalwart arm, receiving the congratulations of her friends, she really looked like a little fairy. A quiet white muslin dress and gracefully-hanging veil, fastened with white rose-buds, made up all her wedding finery; and I question if it occurred to any in the room that rustle of satin or glitter of jewels were wanting to make more beautiful the effect. It certainly did not to John Graham, who looked down on his young wife with as proud a look as though Collins expressed it. For you must know Goody Collins was there. In deference to John's wishes some of the "second stratum" had passed the social barrier, and were shining in the room in all the glory of regularly received invitations. First and foremost among the beauties, blushing deep-red as she grasped Mildie's hand, was Janie Thompson, dimpled and sparkling as ever with the gay autumn leaves hanging from her dark hair over her white shoulders, and with her was no less a personage than our old friend Ik Bryson, who could hardly look the bride in the face, his eyes were so fully occupied in admiration of his own companion. And Peggoty Plimpton, too, with her good-humored face, wishing "Mrs. | neighbors to assume its upright form. A "barnJohn Graham" "all the happiness on earth," raising" in Q- was quite a little circumand whispering in John's ear, as she passed to make room for others, "'twas a right good stroke that carried you into a singing regiment!" stance. When a frame for a new building was all ready to join together the neighbors were invited one and all to the "raising," and one's own work was always left to help the friend with his new structure. At John Graham's barnraising the neighbors turned out pretty generally, and after every joint had been fitted, and the usual number of axe-heads knocked off and spoiled, John brought out his great pitchers of cider, loaves of gingerbread, and pail of crack And Mrs. Thompson (except once when she was heard to murmur under her breath, with her eyes fixed on the bride, "Two tucks and no gores") replied nothing but "Yes" to every thing that was said to her till she was asked by Ik Bryson in joke "if it really was her hundredth birthday?" when she suddenly came to her senses and talked like other people. And sit-ers and cheese. ting over in one corner was old Dame Graham, with quiet happiness beaming over every feature, saying to her various well-wishers, "Ah! yes, and I kenned well he was a true lad if he was ofttimes forward a wee bit." All went smoothly till the first dance, when Henry Foster, to the astonishment of all, asked Janie Thompson to be his partner. Janie colored, and said something simply enough about Ik Bryson, but took his proffered hand. A moment later Ik looked about the room, and started visibly when he saw his partner standing up with Henry Foster. He walked over to the spot where they stood and asked Janie if this was not his dance. "Well-yes-but won't the next do, Ik?" faltered the young girl, but rather coquettishly. "No," said Ik, bluntly. "Then I'm afraid it will have to," replied Miss Thompson, bridling up. "What's this tongue-wagging about the Thompson lass and young Foster?" John had asked, as grouped together on the smooth grass they sat eating and drinking. "I dunno," said old Farmer Bryson; "but Ik says there's no good coming out on it. The gal is flustered by the young man's shining up to her!" "I like to see folk stick to their own class," broke in Farmer Squires. "As for that I can't blame the girl," said John, "if Foster is to be trusted; but I haven't a very high opinion of him." "Oh! it's all wrong, John," said Ik Bryson, coloring a little; "it makes me mad to see such things. Janie don't mean wrong, and Foster is only a-fooling her." "I'd speak to him, Ik, then-you like the girl so much-and ask him what he means." "I couldn't trust my tongue, I'm afeard," re myself there'll be a breeze." Nothing more about it was said; but that same afternoon Ik Bryson sauntering slowly down the road, when near the gate of Mrs. Thompson's house, to his astonishment who should he see coming out but Henry Foster! Ik took his hat, and, bidding the bride good-plied Ik; "but if he comes in my way I think night, went home; and the party soon after broke up, hardly any one noticing the occurrence. But any one who knew Ik Bryson knew that, though a rough farmer boy, he could feel a slight as keenly as any one, and in his thoughts, as he walked home through the cool October night, was a feeling that prompted him to knock off every mullen-head he met with a smart blow of his stick, muttering "I wish 'twere Foster's head!" And Janie Thompson, as she laid her head on her pillow, felt she had not done just the right thing by her old fast friend Ik; for Janie, uninfluenced by these upper stratum attentions, was as good and warm-hearted a girl as there was for many a mile around. But the attentions of young Squire Foster she was hardly proof against, for she well knew she would be the envy of her whole set for days after, only for this little occurrence. But nothing more was heard of the matter, and Q- settled down into its usual winter quiet. But early in the spring, among the other village gossip, young Foster's attention to Janie Thompson was again a fruitful topic. I think it was started about the time of John Graham's "barn-raising." The Deacon had given John a fine plot of ground down near the Falls, and he had at once broken ground for his new home. His house, snug and pretty, was nearly completed, and his barn was only awaiting the kind strength of his Ik stopped short, and Harry as he passed bowed good-naturedly. "A fine afternoon, Bryson," and passed on. "Very," muttered Ik, and stood still, looking after him. Suddenly he seemed struck with a sudden impulse, and followed him. "Mr. Foster, are you in a hurry?" called Ik. Henry Foster turned, and replied he was not. "Then let's have a word or two," said Ik, and quite firmly too. "I want to ask a little about the girl in yonder house. Do you think you like her as well as I do?" "I shouldn't wonder," said Harry, smiling. "Then, do you think you like her as truly as do?" continued Ik, looking him straight in the face. I "How do you mean, Bryson?" said Foster. "I mean, do you like her more than any other person under the heavens, as I do? Would you marry her ?" Foster hesitated and looked down the road. "Come, Mr. Foster, I want an answer from you about this here. I don't believe you or any other man can plow two furrows at the same time and with different teams. Your sweet heart is not here, if report don't lie, and mine est the door opened it and looked out. is." "Well, Ik, don't worry yourself. I don't mean to marry the girl, but I do like to see her once in a while." Bryson's teeth came together tightly. "Yes; and, Mr. Foster, by those same words," said he, "you are doing what no gentleman should do. You care little for her, but you don't know how she may feel. You know as well as I do what power that glib tongue of yours has." Henry Foster felt the blood tingling at his finger tips, but he kept his temper down. He well knew that Ik Bryson could hoe as true a row, or plow as firm & furrow, or break as wild a colt, or knock a man down as easily as any boy in the village, and that there on the roadway, with but six feet of space between them, it behooved him to be careful what words he said. "Well, Bryson, you must know this is very strange of you. I certainly can go where I will without consulting you." I "So you can, Mr. Foster, and do right. Into that there house and do wrong you can't. mean to marry Janie Thompson." "Indeed!—with her will or no?" Ik's answer was slow and very deliberate: "You know what I mean. Her will is all right, if not spoiled by you, and I don't wish it tried. I tell you now, Mr. Foster, once for all, and I mean it, you and I can't go through that there gate in future both, and I mean to. understand. Good-night!" You Ik passed on; and Mr. Harry Foster felt sure that his impression was right when that impression told him that he had had altogether the worst of the controversy. But he whistled a bright air as he moved up the road, seemingly dismissing it all from his mind. It was not very long after this that the village received their pleasant invitations to John Graham's "house - warming." The day he had chosen had broken clear and beautiful, and at evening the moonlight was brilliant as could be wished. By early twilight the company began to arrive, some in teams, many walking. All our old acquaintances, Emma Sharp, and Jennie Keyes, and Ned Brice, and all came merrily in, a little awed at first to be the guests of Mildie Faunce, but soon assured by the easy welcome they received. Henry Foster was there too, and Janie Thompson, and Ik Bryson; and every one seemed bent on enjoying themselves. The new clock was just nearing the small hours when Mildie was asked to favor them with one of her songs. She readily complied, and her sweet voice was just dwelling on the last words when, suddenly, with the room as still as still could be, all the company were startled by a heavy thunder-clap, that made the windows rattle and seemingly the whole house to shake to its foundations. Those sitting leaped to their feet, and for a moment or two it seemed as though the house itself was struck. Those near The moon in the middle sky just gilded the edge of an inky-black thunder-cloud that was fast filling the heavens, while the lightning ever and anon shot across the dull blackness in quick, pulsating gleams, and the whirl of the wind could be distinctly heard on the neighboring hills. There was a seeming dullness in the air too, that, with the sobbing moan of the distant wind, apparently weighed you down with a consciousness of near catastrophe. As the cloud covered the moon another deafening crash and lurid flash made all start. Graham and some of the others as quickly as possible put such teams as were exposed under the best cover he had; but it was hardly a moment ere the rain came pouring down in torrents. The company, snug indoors, were rather inclined to joke than otherwise on the change of surroundings, and John was just rallying his wife as to the accommodations the new house afforded in way of beds for weather-beaten guests, when, all of a sudden, as though by common impulse, a quick whisper went around the room, "Where's Janie Thompson?" With the deafening peals sounding outside, the lightning flashing fearfully across the window-panes, while the moaning of the wind filled the hills, such a question was a startling one. Mrs. Graham was seen to leave the room, and soon returned, looking pale. "Janie is nowhere in the house," said she; "where can she be ?" "And where the devil's Foster?" suddenly exclaimed Ik Bryson. "By Heaven, there's something wrong!" The guests looked at each other in silence. At this moment a staggering blow sounded on the door, and Henry Foster, with drenched clothes, no hat, and with hair streaming with water, pale, even, as poor Mrs. Thompson, speechless in her chair, reeled into the room. All pressed around him, while he gazed vacantly upon them. "Stand off, friends," said John Graham, "and give him space to breathe. Where's Janie Thompson, Foster?" "O God! Graham, don't ask me," he replied, with difficulty, speaking almost in a whisper, and passing his hands hurriedly across his eyes. "The bridge has gone down stream in the roar, and we were 'mong the timbers when the crash came." "Hush!—not so loud!" said Graham, quickly glancing at Mrs. Thompson. "Mildie, dear, some of you get her up stairs-any where, out of hearing.' With white frightened faces enough some of the women helped poor Mrs. Thompson out of the room. She was quite passive, apparently having lost all consciousness of what was going on. "Now, for Heaven's sake, tell us all!" broke in Ik Bryson, in a strange, sepulchral voice, while the great drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. |
