Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 15, 1896, Page 2

FONLY DAUGHTER. CHAPTER I. Hew Matthew Rivers Took a Letter Home With Him, It was market day at Alverton. A bright sky shone overhead: and gath- ered in knots, upon the shady side of the road, stood the farmers conversing together, now of their stock, now of the crops, and now of the weather. Cheeiy voices called out hearty in- quiries for the health of those at home, and cheery voices replied. Cordial greetings were interchanged; and ever and aon a boisterous laugh broke forth from the mouths of one or other of the merry, jovial men, who, in top boots, and with riding whips in hand, stood laughing and joking to- gether, for the business of the day was over, and they only loitered for gossip ora glass of that ale for which Alver- ton was and is so justly celebrated. As the sun declined, gilding the heavens with its departing glory, horses were led forth from the inn yard, and good stout country chaises made their appearance in the long, straggling street of Alverton. Then there was more handshaking, more hearty voices, and more goodwill ehown, as, one by one, the farmers mounted their horses or got into their chaises, and drove or rode slowly along the uneven pavement on their way home to their wives and families. Among all those who had that day attended market at Alverton there was, perhaps, no one so universally liked and respected as Matthew Rivers, the maltster. He was a grave and austere man, but pleasant withal. He had ever a word of friendly advice for those who sought it; he had ever a shilling to be stow in charity; and, moreover, he had @ daughter named May, who was the belle of the country for many a mile round. Matthew Rivers was one of the last to leave, for he had to pay for his popu- larity by listening to many a long story from his friends. As he rode along cr his sturdy cob, now fairly on his way home, he heard the sound of feet following him rapidly along the street. Turning, he saw a man running after bim, who no sooner perceived that he attracted his attention, than by frantic gestures he urged him to stop. Matthew Rivers reined in his horse, and awaited this person’s approach, who, in a few moments, stood panting and-breathless by his side. “Why, Jem, what’s the matter?” asked the maltster, recognizing in the man one of his brother-in-law’s labor- ers. “The master, sir—the master, he couldn't come te town himself to-day, so he sent me, and bade me be sure to ive you this letter’’—producing one as 8 spoke—‘and I’d forgot all about it till I see you ride by.” Matthew Rivers took the letter and put it into his pocket, and then, with a few words of acknowledgment, he con- tinued his homeward way. “Now, what can David want with me?’ So ran the maltster’s thoughts. “He isn’t over-quick with his pen, It must be something particular makes him write. He can’t want money, for he’s better off than Iam. There can’t be anything the matter, or Jem would have known it, and told me. However, I can’t see to read it now, it must be kept till I get home.” The moon rose as Matthew Riyers, putting his horse to a trot, struck off from the main road down the country Jane which led to the village of Anna- dale, where he resided. it was a pretty, little, old fashioned country village, with its old, grey, stone church, its lattice-windowed cot- tages, its flower-covered porches, and its general air of peace and quiet. Such a village was Annadale, as you may even now occasionally meet with, when wandering far away from railroads and that civilization which substitutes red brick and stucco for wood and creepers. Never did the village look prettier than on that night, as Matthew Rivers rode slowly up the hill. The bright, clear moonlight silyered the trees, through which, ever and anon, a light breeze played like soft music; the nightingale trilled forth his evening hymn of praise, the grey tower ot the church rose indistinctly, high above the cottages, and the faint even- ing wafted the perfume of roses along the road. Before one of the largest of the cot- tages the maltster reined in his horse. ‘Then forth came the good house-uog, frisking and barking a welcome to his master. Forth came the rough-looking youth who filled the post of groom, and forth came May Rivers ,to greet her father on his return home. She was, indeed, a beautiful girl. One of those favorites of nature, who, without possessing the classic regularity of feature, have that inde- scribable charm which goes straight'to the heart. Her beautiful hair, coiled at the back of a small and well-shaped head, was fastened with a large silver pin, such as is used at the present day by the Italian peasant women. Her bright eyes sparkled with pleas- ure, as she tripped lightly down the path to meet her father at the gate. There was not a man in Annadale who would not have envied Matthew Rivers the kiss he received from those rosy lips. Her tall ard graceful form a sculptor might have copied for the Queen of Beauty, and her small hands were models of elegance. “How late you are, father!” she ex- claimed, in a soft, clear tone. “Come in! We are waiting supper for you this half-hour!” : Matthew Rivers needed no pressing. He walked sturdily up the path lead- ing to the doorway, over which hung long, flowering creepers, which filled the atmosphere with their odor. May tripping by his side, sportively leading him by the hand. As they entered the house a stately t+ dame moved slowly forward to meet them. Mrs. Rivers was no longer ycung. Her step long since lost its youthful elasticity, and her hair, which, howey- er, was still luxuriant, was perfectly white. Kindly and lovingly the malster greeted his wife, who, with many words, welcomed him home, and. then the three sat down to their evening meal, Supper concluded, Matthew Rivers bethought himself of the letter he had brought with him from Alverton. After the manner of many, the malt- ster examined every side of the letter, the seal and then the direction, before he opened it. “It's odd what David’s writing about, anyway!” “We hayen’t heard from him for a long while,” said Mrs. Rivers. “No, no,” said her husband. “Pros- perity did him more harm than good! it made him look down on his rela- .tions!” “I’m sure he need not look down on us,” said May. “No, my dear; but you see, since he’s got liis money, and bought the house and bit of ground out there near Ports- mouth, he’s—Well, never mind, it’s only human nature! Let’s see what he’s been writing about.” May tried not to look curious, but there was a feeling of impatience in her little heart, while her father slow- ly put on his spectacles, then deliber- ately unfolded the epistle, and pressed it flat with his hand. “Heaven forgive me for being un- just!” said the maltster, laying down the letter after he had read a few words. “What is it, father?” “What's the matter, Matthew?” Daughter and mother addressed question simultaneously. “We've been condemning David, while in my hand I hold this letter—a kind, warm-hearted, brotherly letter.” “Does he want anything?’ asked May. “Yes, my dear.” “I thought so,” murmured May, “or he never would have written.” Though the words were spoken in a low tone, Matthew Rivers heard them. “May, you speak unjustly and un- thinkingly. The letter is an invitation for you to go and pass a month with them at the seaside.” May clapped her hands gleefully to- gether. “Oh, how good—how kind of them!” she cried. “You would like to go?” “Oh, yes, very, very much. Let me read the letter.” With delight beaming on her beauti- ful face she perused every line of the writing. “Oh, father, listen! He says there will be boating parties and excursions, and I shall see cousin Rose. When shall I go?” “There is time enough to settle that.” “It will be delightful! How pleasant it will be!” “May I ask what it is thit will give Miss May so much pleasure?” said a soft voice behind her. May started and turned. “Don’t look so frightened, May,” said her father; “it is only John Gridley.” John Gridley bowed. He was a young man of about seven and twenty. His features were good and his man- ners were prepossessing, but, at the same time, there was an indescribable something in his appearance which de- tracted considerably from what would have been a handsome face. He was attired in dark clothes of a somewhat antiquated cut, and moved about softly, as if afraid of hearing his own footsteps. John Gridley had come from the north of England a few years before the commencement of this story, bear- ing a letter of introduction to Matthew Rivers, who had given him a situation in his counting house at a small salary. In a very short time the young clerk showed such an aptitude for business, and so distinguished himself in one or two mercantile transactions that were left to his management, that the malt- ster raised his salary, and entrusted him with the overlooking of a certain portion of the business. ~ As the months went by he obtained more and more of his employer's con- fidence. He became not only his clerk, but his friend, and in some things his confi- dential adviser. At last, shortly before the market day upon which the first incident of this tale took place, Matthew Rivers hinted to the clerk that he might, ere long, be taken into partnership. It must be confessed that the worthy maltster hoped that nearer ties than business ones might some day exist between him and John Gridley. If May could only take a liking to him, the old man thought his happiness would be complete. He had no intention of forcing his daughter’s inclinations; but he hoped, and even prayed, that the wish of his heart should be granted, and that ere he died he might see John Gridley the manager of the business, with May for his wife. Had he only been able to read his daughter’s thoughts, he would have had little hope of his latter wish being gratified. May felt an instinctive dislike to John Gridley, and, being young and impetuous, tool: little trouble to con- ceal her feelings; but Matthew Rivers was blind—perhaps willfully so—he either could not or would not see that no love could ever exist between John Gridley and his daughter May. “May I ask what it is that will give May so much pleasure?” repeated John Gridley. May did not answer. The presence of her father’s clerk always served to- damp her spirits, and the gleeful look of merriment left her face as he spoke. “My brother-in-law, David,” said the maltster, “has sent over an invitation to May to pass a month with him at the seaside.” “Indeed,” said John Gridley, elevat- ing his eyebrows. “Yes,” said Mrs. Rivers, “it’s very kind of him, and I’m sure she’ll be very happy.” “You intend to let her go, then?” in- quired John Gridley. “Of course I shall go,” said May, somewhat indignantly, for she re- sented the intrusion of her father’s con- fidential clerk into the private affairs of the household. “Has you brother any family, Mr. Rivers?” “Oh, yes! A daughter, Rose, about May’s age, who'll be a nice companion for her during her visit, and a son—” “Oh, there is a son?” observed John Gridley. ii “Yes; but quite a lad. You needn’t fear.” “What should Mr. Gridley fear?’ in- terposed May, and Mrs. Rivers held her peace. The inhabitants of Annadale kept early hours, and May soon departed to her own room to dream of the happi- ness in store for her. Mrs. Rivers left soon after, and Matthew was left alone with his clerk, John Gridley. They sat together for many hours, and as the younger man talked on ina low, soft, monotonous tone, ever and anon referring to a column of figures in his pocketbook, the face of the maltster became paler, and showed signs of trepidation which were strangely dif- ferent to its usual expression. Far into the night they sat; and when morning dawned, Matthew Riv- ers still sat in that room, his hands clenched, his eyes fixed, his face hag- gard and pale. John Gridley had surely been the bearer of evil tidings. CHAPTER Ii, The Meeting at the Fairy’s Haunt. David Deacon was a_ flourishing trader when he married Matthew Riv- ers’ sister. His business was in the town of Portsmouth, but at about the same time that John Gridley became his brother-in-law’s clerk, he found he had made sufficient money to warrant him in retiring from business. He took a house at no great distance from the town where his money had been made, and passed a happy, con- tented life there, with his wife and two children—Rose, a pretty girl, about May’s age, and Harry, a boy yet at school, with a strong determination to become a sailor. David Deacon’s house was an old fashioned place, standing in its own grounds and commanding an extensive sea view. It was not large enough or grand enough to be called a mansion, neither would any one have presumed to call it a cottage; but it was comfort- able, and suited David Deacon, and therefore it mattered little to him by what name it was designated. It was the last week in August when May Rivers set out with her father one glorious morning for Alverton. It was market day again, and the old maltster drove his daughter into the town where David Deacon was to meet her and convey her to his home on the long talked of, long looked forward to, visit. As May rode with her father through the green lane ,with the trees meeting overhead and the bright sun gleaming between the leaves, throwing a check- ered light and shade upon the road, her heart beat joyfully, and she could have carolled in unison with the birds, so happy did she feel. Of course, there was a pang of re- gret in leaving the house in which every day of her life had hitherto been passed; but then it was, after all, little more than twenty miles she was going, and the novelty and the anticipated pleasure prevented any deep feeling of regret from marring her happiness. She was going to see the s:a—she was going to make the acquaintance of a cousin, of whom as yet she had only heard—she was going to see new scenes. and different people to those to whom she had been accustomed; and in her happiness she laughed aloud for joy— a little, low, mellow, musical laugh, like the rippling of-a tiny stream. Everything was so new, so strange to her. Her world had been bounded by the market town, to which she had been cnce or twice, but now she was going to a large, busy, bustling seaport. It was the fivst great episode in her life;.but could she have foreseen to what that visit would lead, the misery that would ensue from it, she would have begged her father to turn the horse’s head and take her back again to Annadale, there to pass a dall, quiet, uneventful life. But she was not gifted with the power of foresight, and rode on by her father’s side as blithe and merry as a bird, little dreaming of that which Fate had in store for her. Alverton was reached; and there were the red-faced, loud-voiced, cheery farmers, all with a hearty welcome for Matthew Rivers, and a clumsy compli- ment for his pretty daughter. There were the younger ones, who strove for a look or a word from pretty May Rivers; and there, too, was David Deacon, with a neat, town-made chaise, waiting to take charge of his pretty niece and convey her to his home. He was a tall, lank, thin man, with iron gray hair, and a stern manner to strangers, but when he spoke to May his voice was as kind as his words, and'she felt, at once, that if she did not enjoy her visit, it would be no fault of her uncle's. ee There was not much time for conver- sation in the street at Alverton, for there was a long drive before the uncle and his niece. Matthew Rivers kissed his daughter, and such of the young farmers who knew her and were not too bashful, shook hands with her. David Deacon put her box into the chaise, and then assisted her in, and then, with a flour- ish of the whip, the vehicle rolled on as May kissed her hand to her father, aud fairly started on her way towards Portsmouth. When Matthew Rivers reached home that evening he felt worse both in health and spirits than he had done for many a long day. ‘ Was it that his business was not in so flourishing a state as he could have wished? Was it that he had some vague fore- boding of the future? Or was it merely that he missed the bright fairy like presence of his merry, pretty daughter, who had deen accus- tomed to flit around him every even- i ing, using a hundred loving, winning Ways to distract his thought from any unpleasant subjects, and to make him feel that whatever misfortune might come upon him, he had a daughter who loved him dearly. May Rivers rode gaily and merrily on by her uncle’s side, chattering un- ceasingly, asking endless questions, laughing and singing, and quite be- witched David Deacon, who had fan- cied her a red-cheeked, uncouth, bash- ful country girl, without a word to say for herself. By and by they reached a steep as- cent, up which the horse walked leis- urely,, May got out from the chaise and tripped gaily along, picking herself a bouquet of wild flowers as she went, but when she reached the brow of the hill she uttered an exclamation of sur- prise, and stood as if rooted to, the spot. For the first time in her life she saw the sea! There, stretching far away, lay a wide expanse of weter, with the sun- light quivering on the waves, and the white sails gleaming over the dark blue surface. David Deacon had been used to it all his life, and wondered at the young girl’s enthusiasm, as she poured forth a torrent of words expressive of admi- ration, but he humored her and let her stand and gaze as much as she would at the prospect before her. At last she resumed her seat in the chaise, and in a short time the uncle and his niece were jolting over the un- even pavement of the Portsmouth streets. Then out again from the town, along by the very edge of the sea, with the white-crested waves splashing with a pleasant sound almost under the horse’s feet, and then, with a sudden turn into a picturesque garden, and up to the door of a pleasant countryfied, homely-locking house, where two ladies stood upon the doorstep awaiting their arrival. Mrs. Deacon kissed May tenderly on the forehead as she assisted her to alight, but her cousin Rose somewhat hung back. As May looked upon her cousin, she saw with surprise how different was her costume to that which she wore. Poor May, she had put on her best attire for her visit, but after all it was little more than a peasant girl’s dress she wore; while Rose was attired in real silk, “as if she were a squire’s daugbter,” thought May. It seemed to her as if there were a gulf between her and her cousin which she could not cross. May held out her hand, and Rose greeted her; but there was little warmth in her welcome. But what was wanting in the daugh- ter was fully made up for in the father and mother, who did everything in their power to make their visitor feel comfortable and at home. That night, for the first time in her life, May Rivers slept away from Annadale. Away from that little room, with its white curtains, its lattice window, and its fragrant overgrowth of flowers. When she awoke the next morning, sho could scarcely realize where she was; but she soon remembered, and drawing aside the blind from before her window, saw the beautiful sea dancing and quivering in the morning sunlight, and she clapped her hands together for joy. A morning spent with her cousin Rose went far to dissipate the rather disagreeable impression the reception she had given her had created. Rose Deacon was a pretty, kind, good-hearted girl, but with her thoughts running too much upon dress and marriage. The latter was to her the great end and aim of existence—the former the means by which it might be brought about. She had at first been disposed to slight May Rivers for her unfashion- able attire; but when she found in her a pleasant, lively companion, and one, moreover, whom she could patronize, the old fashioned dress was speedily forgotten, and the two girls passed a happy morning together. That evening, at the instigation of Rose, Mrs. Deacon had invited some friends, and there was some talk of a little dance. Poor May felt abashed when she heard it. She was unused to society, and knew nothing of its ways; moreover, how could she appear in her present dress? That latter was a difficulty speedily overcome, for her cousin sacrificed one of her own; and after a few hours spent in cutting and contriving, May descended from her room, radiantly beautiful in a white muslin dress, which displayed her all but perfect figure to the greatest advantage. She got through the evening better than she expected, and enjoyed it im- mensely. Late at night, when all the guests were gone, Rose Deacon came to her cousin’s room, and sat herself down upon the edge of the bed. “Well, May, now, tell think,” said she. “How joy yourself?” “Oh, very, very much,” replied May, enthusiastically. “It was very pleasant, was it not?” “Delightful! I don’t know when I have been happier.” “What did you think of George Steele?” “That tall gentleman in uniform?” “Yes. He is lieutenant of the Osprey ‘-and—and—what do you think, May?” “About him?” “I might be Mrs. Steele to-morrow, if I liked!” “Do you care for him?” “A little, perhaps, but not much. But what do you think of him?” “I thought. he was very good look- ing.” “Ah, yes; but you should see Ernest Hartrey—he is the son of the great man here, Sir Harold Hartrey, and im- mensely rich—and of all the handsome men I ever saw—. Well, I suppose you don’t care about him, and you seem tired, so I shall go to bed. Good night.” ’ “Good night,” said May, who was, truth to say, altogether unused to late hours, and ceuld hardly keep her eyes open. ‘When she fell asleep it was to dream of Ernest Hartrey, the handsome son of the baronet. The next morning, after breakfast, Rose proposed a walk to her cousin, who was delighted at the idea; and in a short time the two were ready, look- jing almost equally charming, though me all you did you en- May’s beauty was the most refined and intellectual. “Come along, May; we'll take Lulu with us and go to Hartrey Park.” Now Lulu was a little dog, the gift of Lieut. Steele to Miss Rose, and a very great favorite. He was a long-haired Scotch terrier, with a little black button of a nose, and sharp bark. When his mistress called he came running and tumbling towards her, shaking his head and barking with de- light at the prospect of a‘run. With the little dog capering around them, the two girls set out upon a walk which to one of them, at least, was to be sadly eventful. “Where are we going,” asked May. “To Hartley Park. It’s a beautiful place; and I know Sir Harold’s away, so we can stroll about there just as we like.” zl jiarley Park was some distance from the Deacons’ house, but neither of the two girls thought much of that. May was well used to walking long distances, and Rose was by no means a bad pedestrian; besides, there were stiles where they could rest, and clear springs of cool water, where they could refresh themselves. At last they reached Hartrey Park, and passing through the lodge gates, found themselves in a long avenue of fine trees, at the end of which stood the house, an old, red brick mansion, with long, narrow windows, and a high roof, surmounted at each end by a turret. But it was not the intention of Rose to go up to the house. She wished to show to her cousin the natural beauties of the park. She turned from the avenue, and, calling to Lulu, followed a narrow path, which led to a charmingly pictut- esque dell, with an old, quaintly- carved fountain at the bottom, now covered with moss and lichens. It wa8S a beautiful spot, and worthy of the name by which it was known— “The Fairy’s Haunt;’ and-Rose had not been mistaken in supposing it to be a place which would enchant her young cousin, who was so keenly alive to the beauties of nature. For more than an hour they strolled about this lovely spot; and then, seat- ing themselves upon the soft, green turf, they rested, preparatory to their homeward walk. ‘The little Lulu, happy in his freedom, darted hither and thither, little heeded by the girls, until, with a sudden yelp of terror, they saw him dash from a small plantation, followed by a huge retriever. The next moment the large dog had overtaken the little terrier and pinned him to the ground, where he lay pros- trate, howling dismally. “Oh, my dog, my poor dog!” cried Rose. “He'll be killed!” May, gathering up her dress, ran to the rescue of the little terrier. “Come back, May! Come back! The dog will fly at you!” cried Rose; but May, nothing daunted, hurried on. The retriever had a collar around his neck, and into this May inserted both her little hands; and then, exerting all her strength, pulled at it, until the ani- mal, in danger of being choked, was forced to release the little terrier, who fled rapidly to his mistress, standing at a little distance looking on in amaze- ment at her cousin’s exhibition of strength and courage. The retriever growled fiercely and shook his head angrily. May felt she could not restrain him, yet feared he would fly at her if she released her hold of his collar. It might have ended seriously for our heroine, had not the owner of the dog at that mon ent, emerged from be- hind a clump of trees. He was strolling leisurely along, smoking a cigar; but he no sooner saw the danger in which May was placed than, throwing away his cigar, he called loudly to his dog, and hurried toward the spot. “Let him go—let him go!” he shouted. “Here, Neptune!” May released her hold of the collar. The dog turned around cn her, show- ing bis teeth savagely; but a call from his master made him turn and walk slowly toward him. The gentleman still continued to ad- vance toward May. As he approached he took off his hat, revealing a white forehead, and a pair of laughing blue eyes as he did so . “You must excuse my dog,” said he; “but for myself, I have no apologies sufficient.” As he spoke he could hardly conceal the admiration he felt for the beautiful girl who stood before him, her count- enance flushed with excitement, and ber eyes beaming with animation; while she, for her part, though she had never seen anyone so handsome, any- one so perfectly a gentleman before. Something told her it was Ernest Hartrey whom she was addressing. It was so; and this was her first meeting with a man who was destined to have the greatest influence over the whole of her life. Alas! could she have known to what that acquaintance would lead, she would have shunned him like a ser- pent. CHAPTER III. May Rivers’ First Love. No soorer did Kose Deacon see to whom it was that May was talking, aud that there was no longer any dan- ger to be apprehended from the dog, than she advanced towards them with her own little pet in her arms. Again Ernest Hartrey removed his hat, and apologized. Then he examined the terrier, to see that it had experienced no injury; and finally, on discovering the direction in which the girls were going, he an- nounced his intention of seeing them in safety part of the way home, at all events. If Rose had been at first inclined to think that it was for her sake the baro- net’s son went so far out of his way, she was speedily undeceived. It was May Rivers, and no one but May Rivers, who had taken the fancy of young Hartrey. He had traveled much, had seen for- eign countries, had read noted books, and had known famous men. No won- der that his conversation was superior to any May had ever heard before. Eagerly she waited for the words which fell from his lips; and with real pleasure he listened to the unsophisti- cated questions of the pretty country girl by his side. It was a conversation into which Rose did not care to etnter. and she. drew apart from the other two almeet without her absence being perceived, Poor Rose! It was a sad blow to her vanity! The little country girl, with her old fashioned hat and dress, had taken Ernest Hartley’s fancy, although she stood by—stood there, resplendent im every way that the Portsmouth milll- ner could make her. To say that Rose was angrygywould, perhaps, be going too far; but it must be evilent to all that her position was not a pleasant one—the more especially as she heiself had on more than one occasion laid herself out to attract the attention of the young squire. Ernest Hartrey walked with them to their own home. “Won't you come in?” asked Rose. & “Not to-day, thank you. I must hasten back; but if to-morrow I might venture to intrude upon you—” “We shall always be glad to see you.” “Oh, do come!” said May earnestly; and the young man promised he would do so. The girls stood watching him as he walked rapidly back towards the park, swinging his stick, and followed by the great retriever, who had all unwit- tingly brought about their acquaint- ance; for Rose, although she had long admired the noble appearance of the . young squire, had never spoken to him till that afternoon. The two girls entered the house to- gether, but Rose did not speak, for she could not help feeling a little hurt and offended. It was not her cousin’s fault, she knew, yet there was the fact that Ernest Hartrey had preferred the pretty Annadale girl to her. But after all, what was it? she asked herself. A few idle words spoken in civility by a baronet’s son to a _ maltster’s daughter, which meant nothing. “That is all,” she repeated; “yes that is all.” Rose was not jealous in the common acceptation. of the word, but was an- noyed to find that her cousin should be preferred to her. The next afternoon Ernest Hartrey called at the house. Now, Mrs. Deacon had very fixed no- = tions on certain subjects; and the ac- ~~ count of the manner in which the young squire’s acquaintance had bee! made, the way in which he had walke home with the two girls, and the invi- tation he had received at the door, had all deeply offended her sense of pre “SF priety. Accordingly, when Mr. Ernest Har- trey was announced, she drew hersel up very stiffly, and looked severely him over her spectacles as he entere However, the young man did not ap- pear to be much distressed at this re- ception. He either did not or would not notic any coldness on the part of the lady 01 the house; and taking a chair, he rat- tled away in his usual lively manner, touching on a variety of topics, and gathering amusement from all. Mrs. Deacon first was amazed and then delighted. It was a long time since she had me with any one so pleasant, she declare to her husband; but David Deacon looked grave. When Rose and May came in, the conversation became general, the hours passed as if by magic; and when Ern- est Hartrey took his departure, he left the most favorable impression behind him on the minds of all the ladies. Not so on the mind of David Deacon. When he came to hear of it his brow clouded, and he looked angrily at his wife and daughter. “Don’t you know,” said he to Rose, “that in social position, Ernest Hartrey is far above us?” “I don’t see that that prevents us from enjoying his society.” “Perhaps not; but when a young man in his position makes himself par- ticularly agreeable to girls in yours, nothing but sorrow and misery can be the result.” “What would you have me do, David?” asked his wife. “I could not refuse him admission.” “Certainly not; but you could have acted with greater caution. Remem- ber, Rose, should I hear of your inter changing more than the most ordinai civilities with Mr. Hartrey, you wil incur my displeasure.” “It is not I who am likely to seek his society,” said Rose, petulantly. “Who, then?” “Ask May.” “Rose, Rose, how can you say so!” exclaimed May, blushing. “You know I should never seek him. He is very kind to me, and talks to me, and I like him very—” The look which David Deacon fixed upon her made her pause, and leave her sentence unfinished. . “The soft nothings which he y whisper in your ear may mean nothing to him, but may have a vast signifi- cance to you. Take care—I only cau- tion you, for I know my sister’s daugh- ter needs no more than a word of well meant advice. Avoid the society of Ernest Hartrey—it is dangerous!” “Surely, David,” interposed his wife, “you do not think that Mr. Hartrey had any bad designs in coming here?” “Perhaps not; but young men are thoughtless; and without any intention on his part, he might make little May there, after a time, learn to look upon the hour in which she first met him as. the most unfortunate in her life.” “But, father, he did not say a word which might not have been publishu in Portsmouth High street.” “& don’t suppose he did, my dear; bu_ we all know prevention is better t cure, and I do not wish him to hay, the opportunity of speaking otherwisi to you.” t “But what are we to do?” asked Mrs. Deacon. ‘We cannot be rude to him in return for his civilities.” “No; but the next time he calla, will see him. If the name of either Kose or May came to be coupled with his by ~~ | 5 5) 1 tS the gossips, it would only be in a ¢ honorable way.” P a (To Be Continued.) On Broadway, Countryman—What’s that, mister? — Policeman—That’s a fire alarm. Countryman—Ged! City people m thems withont ne Of Mioee oom e] things!—Truth. we on ant pa dS Two Would Be Too Many. | “Do you think that two heads are better than one?” “Well, the one I had last et wragl quite sufficient.’—New York Worl y