Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 22, 1896, Page 2

—— a oa - LUV NTI WW VIV YTV YY ONLY DAUGHTER. ‘aaead CHAPTER II—(Continaed‘ “But uncle,” said May, “I assure you—” “J wan't no assurance, May, dear. I am only acting cautiously. Believe me, when I say I know it is for the best; for no good can come of a friendship between people in stations of life so widely apart as the Hartreys and our- selves.” “But, David, I think—’ “J would rather not talk any more upon this subject—it is not an agree- able one. Come, May, would you like a sail this beautiful afternoon?” There ittle need to ask her, and Rose was equally willing; and in a short time David Deacon and the two girls were in a little yacht, running ly before the breeze toward Ryde, which t that time but a poor col- lection of houses and fishermen’s huts. The sun sparkled on the sea, and the waves foamed and rippled as the tiny boat cleaved its way through the wa- ter; and May held her pretty little hand ove gunwale and wetted the tips of her delicate finge-s, and strove to make herself believe that she never had, might, could, or would think of Ernest Hartrey in any other way than she the it of John Gridley or Lieut. Steele. Poor little thing, she did not know that the mischief was already done. She dared not tell herself that the young squire was more to her than any one else in the world. “No, no, no!’ she kept repeating to herself; “I do not care for him. He is nothing to me. I shall never see him again.” ‘ She little thought then how import- ant t he would have to play in her life’s history. It would be tedious to describe the occupations of each successive day— suflice it that May Rivers enjoyed ev- ery hour of her visit; and though occa- sionally a thought of Ernest Hartrey er ed her mind, she was thinking and less of him, when an event red which altered the whole course of her existence. She was walking alone, in the cool of a September evening in the grounds which surrounded her uncle’s house, when she fancied she heard her own name pronounced in a low voice. She listened tremblingly. s iss Rivers. Do not be alarmed, I must speak to you.” At the same time two hands were placed upon the fence before her, and Ernest Hartrey vaulted lightly over the palings and stood before her. “Why have you avoided me?’ he asked, not giving her time to speak. “Eyer since our first interview I have remained in the neighborhood on the chance of being able to speak with you again. What have you heard of me that you should dread my approach?” May pressed her hands to her bosom to ll the palpitations of her flutter- ing heart. In a moment all of the old feeling which she had struggled so hard ‘to subdue returned to her with redoubled force. She felt irresistibly drawn toward the handsome youth who stood before her, his deep blue eyes fixed intently on her face. “I cannot stop,” she said, hurriedly; “do not detain me.” He heeded her not, but took her hand in his. She tried to withdraw it, but he ela i ‘3; you must see that it fs nd com- mon matter which urges me to speak.” “T cannot—will not wait!” cried May, atching away her hand. n you not see, Miss Rivers, that my feelings toward you are warmer than those of an ordinary acquaint- v do not turn from me. saw you your face made upon me, which time rengthen. I will not hear you!” cried “You have no right “I have a right, dear May—the right © more—no more!” cried May; and, thoroughly frightened, she turned aud fled, uor paused until she reached the house. There, in the solitude of her own room, she had time for reflection. Could it be true? Was it really pos- sible than one so handsome, so rich, so well-born, could love the daughter of a maltster? Then came acrcss her mind the words of her uncle: Vere your name to be coupled with his, it would only be to your dishonor!” “No—no!” she cried aloud; “he would never wrong me. He is a true, noble gentleman! He would not have said these words had he not intended——No, he could not act dishor.orably!” Poor little thing! She hardly knew whether she was more happy or mis- erable. At one moment a shower of tears; at another, the bright, sunshiry smile of hope and joy. After some time spent in the solitude of her own room, she descended to the parlor. “Why, May, where have you been so long?” “In my own room.” “I was hunting you everywhere, to tell you a bit of news.” “What is it, uncle?” “Your friend, Ernest Hartrey—you remember him?—is going to be married next mont.” May turned ghastly pale; but David Devcon, not perceiving it, continued: “A match suitable in every way; it is to be the second daughter of Lord Porchester; she is very rich, and, they say, beautiful.” May heard no more. She fell to the ground in a deep swoon. Thus ended her short day-dream of happiness. e The castles she had been building in the air dispelled at a moment’s notice, and she herself buried in the frag- ments. It was dreadful, indeed; but had she known what further torments Fate had in store for her, she would have prayed that she might never recover from that swoon, but rather, pass qui- etly and peacefully away from the moiling, toiling world--away from its cares, its troubles, its pains, and its bitter disappointments. CHAPTER Iv. « The Course of True Love When David Deacon retailed the lit- tle piece of gossip concerning Ernest Hartrey and Lord Porchester’s daugh- ter, he little thought of the effect it would have upon one of his listeners. Yet she must have heard it soover or later. Perhaps it was better she should know it at once. So ran the worthy man’s thoughts, as he saw his niece stretched on the sofa in a death-like swoon. He could not understand its cause, for he ELnew nothing of the last inter- view she had had with ,the ;oung squire. He little knew of the pang which shot through her neart when she heard his words—ithe pain which thrilled her frame—the tumultuous thoughts which crowded to her mind. He little knew of the bitter pain that news caused her. She loved this nan—chis Ernest Hartrey; and he, by his words, spoken but an hour before, led her :0 believe that he returned her affection; yet all tie while he was but trifling with her. Sincerity formed no part of that speech he made her. He would have deceived her—he had deceived her. He was plighted to another, and yet dared whisper words of love to ber. Her idol was fallen, indeed! She could not have believed him capable of such a deed, yet no doubt of the truth- fulness of the report entered her mind. Was it not more probable that a bar- onet’s son should wed the daughter of a marquis than a maltster? Yet it was a bitter blow to her—one almost more than she could bear. When she recovered from her faint- ing fit, Mrs. Deacon would have ques- tioned her, but she silenced her at once. “Ask me no questions,” said she, “for I cannot answer them; let me be quiet, tor I have much to bear.” They respected her wish, though they pitied her weakness. Tearfully she bade them all good-night, hardly daring to trust herself to speak; and slowly she re- tired to her own room to p‘ss a sleep- less night of misery. At first it seemed to her as if life were no longer worth having; but as her fevered brain grew cooler and she could think more calmly, her sense showed her that there was but one course which she could safely adopt. She must leave the place at once, and in the tranquillity of Annadale strive her utmost to forget every inci- dent of her bright day-dream. If Ernest should seek her before she went? She could not resolve what she would do in that case. She felt she could not trust herself to speak to him, to upbraid him with his conduct. She doubted her own firm- ness too much to allow her to speak again to him who, by his speech, had so cruelly wronged her. “Oh, that I had never come here!” she cried, aloud, “that I had never seen him!” Restlessly she tossed her aching head upon the pillow; but it was not till the pale light of morning quivered at her window that she sobbed herself to sleep. For some days she was too unwell to leave the house. Her bright, active, spirited nature was gone; and no one would have known her for the same young girl who laughed and prattled so ly with her uncle during that drive from Alverton. Poor May! The troubles of life had commenced early for her. It was not until two days before her departure for home that May felt pos- sessed of the strength, or the inclina- tion, to walk abroad; but a fine glow- ing autumn day, with a calin blue sea, and a rich russet woodland, tempted her forth with her cousin. Slowly they paced together by the sea, both more occupied with their own thoughts than with conversation; when, to the surprise of both, and to the terror of one, they came face to face with Ernest Hartrey The red blood rose into May’s cheek, but she took no notice of the proffered hand; while Rose fidgetted uneasily, for she knew this meeting was the thing, of all others, to be avoided. “Good day, ladies,” said Ernest Har- trey “Miss Rivers, I have been hoping to see for some days past; but, till now, my hope has not been gratified” May bowed, but made no verbal re- sponse. “You will, I trust, excuse me, Miss Rivers,” continued the young spuire, “but I have something I particularly wish to say to you. May I ask you to grant me a few minutes private conversation?” “My cousin has not been well,” said Rose, hastily. “1 cannot leave her alone.” “IXxcuse me again,” said Ernest, po- litely; “but it is a matter of much im- portance, and I can only take an an- swer from Miss Rivers.” May, whose blush had faded away, leaving her deathly pale, hesitated. “You must not think of it,” whispered Tose in her cousin’s ear. “Do not refuse, Miss Rivers—I will not detain you many minutes.” May, with an air of determination, turned to her cousin and said, aloud: “There can be no harm in hearing what Mr. Hartrey has to say. We will walk a little along the shore, and [| will return to you directly.” “Thank you—thank you a thousand | times-” said Ernest, with a look of deep gratitude. Rose disapproved, but ere she ceuld frame her thoughts the others were some distance in front of her. Slowly she followed, pondering in her mind what the interview would bring forth. May waited for her companion to speak, and looked away from him sea- wards. Her lips were tightly com- pressed and her face expressed deter- mination. When he addressed her his voice was soft and tender, and his eyes turned supplicatingly towards her averted face. “If you know how I have sought this opportunity,” ,said he—‘if you know how I have longed to speak with you, you would pity me! I feared I should be forced to leave the reighbor- hood without seeing you, for business compels me to leave the Park to-mor- row.” “Preparations for your marriage, I suppose, Mr. Hartrey?” said May, coldly. Ernest looked surprised. “What do you mean?? he asked, nervously. “Simply this—that when last we met, I was unaware of your engage nent to Lord Porchester’s daughter, or I showd then have congratulated you on the prospect of an alliance so suitable in every way.” “Who told you that?’ cried the young squire; “the report must be my fatber’s handiwork. I swear to you I will no “Pardon me Mr. Harirey, I :ave 1o possible concern with your family ar- rangements, and must decline to sisten to anything respecting them. They cannot interest me.” Poor May! Her throbbing heart be- lied her words; but she had set herself a certain task and she was resolycd to complete it. “May—May why this coldness? I had hoped a far different reception from you. When I last saw you—when I told you I loved you——” “Mr. Hartrey on that occasion to which you refer you spoke words which you could not mean; and I was foolish--weak enough to listen to you. I now desire that you make no refer- ence to them.” Her face was still averted as she spoke. In her eyes tears glistened, and her lips quivered with suppressed emotion; yet she uttered the words clearly arid distinctly, and, beyond a slight tremulousness in her voice, showed no signs of the intense pain the interview was costing her. “But, May, feeling as I do—loving you as I do—” “Silence, sir!” cried May, facing him for the first time, and standing still. “Such words as those addressed to me are an insult! I will not listen to them! If you are a gentleman, you will not repeat them. My station in life and yours are far upart.” “T assure you——” “I require no assurance—I wish ycu merely to understand that I will not listen to professions of love from the affianced husband of Lord Porchester’s daughter.” “But, May, listen to me! The. ¢n- gagement of which you speak exists only in my father’s fancy. I shall ney- er marry her!” “Reports say differently,” said May, coldly. “Oh, May! do you believe and trust me so little that you will more readily believe the voice of hundred-tongued rumor than mine? I tell you the truth when I say that my father and Lord Porchester have alone arranged the match, and that neither the lady nor I have any voice in the matter. Believe this, 1 implore!” “Supposing that to be the case, Mr. Hartrey, I do not see that it affects me in any way.” “Not affect you, May—you, of all the people in the world who I would wish to feel an interest in it! I tell you that, whatever might have been, had 1 not seen you, is now an utter impos- sibility. You, and you only, can ever be my wife!” “Your wife!—your wife!” repeated May, half to herself, as if doubting that her ears had heard aright. “Yes, dearest May. my wife! Do not turn from me! Tell me if you love me?” “Tf I—no, no--it cannot be. You do not know what you are saying. That of which you talk is an impossibility!” Everything seemed to swim before May’s eyes. She felt like one walking ina dream. Her brain reeled, and she almost doubted her own senses. Could it be that she had heard aright? Was Brnest Hartrey serious when he talked of making her, the poor country girl, the malster’s daughter, his wife? “It is no impossibility, Jear May. To a man with a strong will and a prize in view, nothing is impossible. Say, then, dearest, you will be my wife—tell me you will return my love!” May hesitated within herself. How could she téll him she did not love him --how could she tell him she would not be his wife? He looked into her face and pressed her for an answer; but when her beau- tiful eyes were raised and met Lis— when he saw the cheeks covered with blushes—he needed no words to tell him that he was loved. Then it was Ernest Hartrey stooped and impriated on that fair forehead a loving kiss, to the no small amazement of Rose Dea- con, who was following behind, and whose presence they had forgotten. “Now, dearest May,” said Ernest, possessing himself of one of her little hands—“now, our owpr part is settled, we must calmly look our difficulties in the face.” “Your father will never consent,” said May. “lam of age, and can do without his permission.” “But I would never be the cause of an estrangement between a father and his son. Without his consent I can never be your wife. “May, May, consider what you say. Remember that——” “Yes, I remember that his and your position is better than mine; that I have no right to be your wife. Oh, Ernest, why did I ever see you—why did I ever love ycu—if the result is to be that of quarrelling and misery?” “Do not say that, dearest. We will hope for the best, and not anticipate etils. Leave everything to me, and I will manage it so that, befdre long, I may ride to Annadale, and ask your fatber’s consent; only, until that time comes, let it be kept a_ secret, for should the news reach my father from other lips than mine, the difliculties in our way would be immeasurably in- creased” “One person we must take into our confidence.” “Who is that.” “My cousin, Rose. She has been watching us during the interview; and it will be better to reveal all to her, than allow her to indulge her own fancy respecting what she has seen.” “Do so if you think best. And now, May, darling, good bye. I leave for London to-morrow morning; and when next I see you, it will be when, with the consent of your father and mine, I claim you for my wife.” He walked rapidly away, and May stood as if entranced, watching his re- treating form; till Rose, laying her hand gently on her shoulder, aroused her from her meditations. May little knew how long it would be before she would again see her hand- some lover, nor under what circum- stances their next meeting would take place. “What does it all mean, May?’ asked Rose, eagerly. “I more than once was minded to interrupt you—for you re- member what father said?” “Oh, Rose, Rose, I am so happy!” and then, as if to contradict her words, the tears flowed rapidly from her bright eyes. After a while, when she had suffi- ciently recovered her composure, May, first binding her cousin to secrecy, told her all that had taken place. Rose listened eargerly, for she was always keenly alive to a love story; and the confidence in this instance re- posed in her was gratifying to her vanity; still, despite the romance, the objections which Sir Harold Hartrey would certainly raise, were not glossed over by either of the girls, though, per- haps, neither of them were able to en- ter into what the feelings of a man like Ernest’s father would be, when informed of what he would call a mes- alliance. He was proud to a degree—proud of his family, his house, his park, his riches, and, above all, his son. His son, whom he had destined to be the husband of a marquis’ daughter, and who had contracted an engagement with a peasant girl, with a maltster for a father, and a retired tradesman for an uncle. With heightened color, and renewed elasticity of step, May returned to the house, more joyful and happy than she had been since the day when David Deacon so rudely dashed away her happiness by the announcement of Ernest’s engagement with the rich and beautiful daughter ef a peer of the realm. And thus it is that youth takes it hue from surrounding objects, dancing when others pipe, mourning when others weep. May was happy in the present, and looked hopefully to the future, never thinking that the cause of joy one day is but too often a source of misery the next. Cheerfully she returned to her uncle’s house—gleefully she entered it. Now life was to her all couleur de rose, for she loved, and was beloved. Goethe makes one of his heroines ex- claim, “I have tasted all the happiness earth can give; I have lived and loved.” So felt May Rivers, as she laid her head upon her pillow that night. CHAPTER V. The Shadow of Evil to Come. A few days after the events de- scribed in the preceding chapter May left David Deacon’s house to return to Annadale. How different everything was to her now, as, seated by her uncle’s side, she drove over the same road ‘which, only a few weeks before, she had passed along with him. Life now to her seemed to possess a brighter and more glorious charm. She longed to tell him of her engage- ment to Ernest Hartrey—of her love, of her admiration for him; but her promise kept her silent. Matthew Rivers met them at Alver- ton, and May greeted her father warmly and affectionately; but no sooner had she had time and oppor- tunity to look into his well-loved face, than she saw that, during her absence, it had grown thinner and paler—that the lines were more deeply marked, and that a look of anxiety was ever on his countenance. What could have caused the change? She knew nothing of the many weary night he had spent since her absence, bending over his great clasped account book. She knew nothing of those long columns of figures which John Gridley and her father had pored over hour after hour. She only saw the effect, and knew nothing of the cause. Her welcome home was a merry one. Mrs. Rivers was glad to see her dear- ly-loved daughter again. Matthew Rivers strove to cast his cares to the winds, and make his daugter happy; but John Gridley hovered about the room like a black shadow, smiling with a feigned smile, and talking with an unnatural cheerfulness. It was strange that y should turn with an instinctive dislike from her father’s confidential clerk. He had never given her any reason to mistrust him; he had never uttered an offensive word to her; but yet she shrank from him almost as if he had been a noxious reptile. May soon fell into her old ways again. At first she had much to tell of her visit—of all shé had seen and all she had done. Again and again it was upon the tip of her tongue to tell her mother of the great happiness which had fallen to her lot; but she had prom- ised to keep it secret, and she kept her promise. it was one evening, about a week after she had returned from Ports- mouth, that she and her father were alone in the little parlor of the Anna- dale Cottage. She was sitting idle; but Matthew Rivers was buried in his thick account book. “May,” he said, after they had sat for a while in silence—‘May, I want to speak to yeu.” “What is it?’ she asked—for there was that in her father’s manner which told her it was no ordinary matter on which he would converse. “May, dear, have you ever thought of marriage?” What could she say? With the thought of Ernest Hartrey and his promises ever foremost in her mind, how could she answer the question in the negative? But Matthew Mivers did not wait for a reply. “There is someone May, who has begged me to speak to you for him— someone who loves you very dearly, and would make you his wife.” Her heart bounded within her, for she knew of: no one but Ernest Hart- rey who had such a wish. “If you could learn to love him,” continued Matthew Rivers—‘to love him enough to marry him—he would make you a good husband. I need hardly say that I approve of him, for had £ not done so, I could not have | -May inclined her head and stood acted as his ambassador.” A dreadful doubt chilled poor May as she heard these words. Had it been Ernest Hartrey of whom her father spoke his language would surely have been different. “Who is it whom you would have me love?” she asked in a faint voice, dreading at the same time to hear his reply. * “Who should it be, but John Grid- ley?” May shuddered and turned away her face. She knew she could never bring herself to love that man. “Why do you not answer, May? Surely, you cannot object to him? His face, his manners, his position—all are in his favor.” May covered her face with her hands. “Tell me, May, what answer I am to give him from you.” May raised her head. Her cheeks had lost their color and she was ashy pale. “Tell him,” she seid firmly—“tell him I cannot be his wife.” “Oh, May, May, think well before you answer thus! You do not know how much your reply involyes—you can never know!” : ‘T could not love him, father, even if “Cven—if what? Speck—tell me what you mean!” “I only mean, father, that I cannot, cannot marry him!” answered May; and her thoughts ran: “Oh, if I could only tell him how much I love another —how Ernest Hartrey is my first and only love—how I can never wed any but he?” Then the promise she had made re- curred to her mind, and she felt that on this subject she was tongue-tied. “May,” said Matthew Rivers—and his yoice was stern and sorrowful—“1 had hoped for a far different reply to this. I would never attempt to force your inclinations, but reflect ere you make. a final decision. You do not know how much is at stake, you can- not guess how much this miscarriage of all my pkns would affect me. I have ever been a loving father to you. Can you not make me some return?” Then his voice changed to one of supplication. “O, think well of what I say,” he continued. “Try if you can- not love John Gridley. Do not decide at once against him. O, if you would but agree to his proposal, it would be the happiest hour of my life!" “But, father, why are you so eager, when I tell you I cannot love him?” “Why am I eager? Because my hon- or is at stake—because this wedding can alone save me from ruin!” “Father—father surely you talk wild- ly! It cannot be as you say!” “It is—it is!” groaned Matthew Riv- ers. “Tell me all father!—let me know the worst.” “No, no!—I cannot tell you now. But I know that what I say is true, and that your refusal is my ruin!” “Oh, what must I do—what must I do?” sobbed poor May. “Say that you will marry him.” “No,*no—I cannot! If you knew all you would not press me!” “For mercy’s sake, delay your final answer!” said Matthew Rivers. ‘This day week we will talk again of the matter; and try, May, darling, if you love me, to think of it differently by then.” May shook her head, for she knew how impossible it would be for her to marry John Gridley. Her heart was no longer hers to give; and even had she been willing to sacrifice herself for her father, she felt that she could not go through the inockery of standing at the altar with one man when her whole affection was centered on another. “T.et me tell him he may hope,” urged ker father. “No! It would be wrong to mislead him.” “But you will think over all I have said, and try to alter your present de- termination?” ‘{ will think over what you have said, father; but I do not believe it possible that I can change my mind on the subject.” Matthew Gridley let his head sink down upon his arms, which were crossed upon the table, and remained in that attitude for some time. When he again raised his head it was to study the book lying before him, and he said no more to his daughter on the subject of her marriage with John Gridley until they parted for the night. “Remember, May—this day week!” It was all he said; but the words were fraught with a terrible signifi- cance to the poor, tearful girl to whom they were addressed. “What could it mean?’ May asked herself. “What could be the - ruin hanging over her father’s head, and which her marriage with John Gridley could avert? What was this terrible mystery which hed so aged her father during the few weeks of her absence?” Again and again she sought for an explanation; but it was beyond her comprehension. Could she make the required sacrifice to save ber father? She answered, unhesitatingly, in the she argued with herself, to give up, all that was dear to her, even though so much was at stake. : The days passed slowly and wearily by. The sun shone and the flowers bloomed. The rich hues of autumn tinted the tres; but all unheeded by ‘poor May, who, like one in a trance, walked listlessly about the house with eyes only for the face of her kind fath- er, which, almost day by day, showed fresh signs of anxiety. It was the day before that upon which May was to give her final de- cision, and as yet nothing had occurred to make her alter her determination. Yielding to the entreaties of her mother, who, anxious for her health, had urged her to leave the house, she had gote for a solitary walk through the woods and meadows of Annadale. Tt was at a stile leading into a long, unfrequented lane, that May Rivers met John Gridley. It was the first time they had met since her father had declared to her the proposal he had made; and for May the mecting was both awkward and unpleasant. As May came near him, he walked ta | meet her. She would have given all she possessed to avoid the interview; but now it was inevitable. “I have been longing and waiting for | this opportunity,” he commenced, | “since your return from Portsmouth. | I have much I wish to say to you.” negative: She was not called.upon,)}- still, waiting for him to explain his meaning. “Excuse me, you were walking in this direction—do not let me hinder you. I will walk by your side.” May offered no opposition, and to gether they paced the long lane. “You cannot have failed to preceive,” continued John Gridley, “the great teration made in the past few weeks your father’s health and spirits?” “Oh, tell me!” cried May, eagerly— “tell me the cause! Is it anxiety for his business?” “It is anxiety, and business has some connection with it; but the chief and principal cause is—” F And here he paused. “What is it? I implore you, tell me.” “Your father has one great wish,” said the maltster’s clerk, “a wish in which I am deeply interested. Need I tell you what it is? Surely not, for you know the one great object he had in view in a union between us—it is the hope of my life as it is of his. Tell me you will not reject me—that I may one day claim you for my wife?’ “No; it ean never,be.” “Will you tell me the reason? Have Toffended you?’ “Never.” “Have you any cause to dislike me?” “None.” “Yet still you say it can never be?’ “T repeat it.” “Then it must be that you are no longer heart-free—that I have been forestalled. Is it not so?” May blushed, and then answered in- dignantly, “I know not by what right you question me in this way. I have answered you, and that must suffice.” “May, listen to me,” said John Grid- ley, seizing her hand, and at the same time changing his voice and manner from its usual civil, courtly tone to one almost fierce and threatening; “when you were little more than a child I loved you. I love you now truly, passionately; and I will allow no one to step between me and my happi- ness.” “Leave go my hand, sir! not talk to me in this way.” “Nay, hear me out. You, from fan- cied love of a handsome face, would put me aside. You would destroy your own future, and you would kill your father!mark me, I say—kill your father! He has set his heart upon our marriage; and in his present state of health, the disappointment would be more than he could bear. I tell you, you dare not reject me” The speech was ill-advised, for it roused May’s anger. So much did she love her father that she might possi- bly have been persuaded into sacri- ficing herself for him; but. the attempt to treaten her into a marriage that was hateful was more than she could bear; and angrily she turned upon the man who walked by her side, and in fiercer words than had ever before passed her pretty lips, told him how she scorned him and his offer. He turned pale as_ she spoke, but waited till she had concluded, and then spoke coldly and bitterly. “You have made your selection,” said he; “and before many months have¢ passed you will regret it. When you see ruin brought upon your father, re- member it is your doing; when you se@ the lines of sorrow deepening on hig brow, remember it is your doing; when you see him cold and dead, remember still it is your doing; that you are an- swerable for the sorrow and misery. which may enter your house. Remem- ber, too, that if I and Ernest Hartrey meet—yes, you start; but you see I knew your secret—it will be the worse for him; and remember, too, above all, that I still love you; and that when you are in trouble, one word from your lips may change sorrow into happiness, grief into joy.” Without giving May the opportunity, of replying to his speech, he pushed through the hedge which bounded the side of the lane on which he was walk- ing, and disappeared from her sight. Terrified at the vehement words of John Gridley, who had always hitherto appeared so cold and impassive, May turned, and rapidly retracing her steps, regained her father’s cottage. Then, hastening to the privacy of her own room, she threw herself upon the bed, and sobbed aloud in an agony of spirit. “What shall I-do—what shall I do?” she cried.. “Oh, heaven help and direet me, for I am in a great strait.” “Tell, me, father, I beg of you,” she said the next day, when Matthew Riv- ers pressed her for her answer, “what are the difficulties that trouble you?’ “The want of money, child. Some speculations have been going wrong; and unless I can raise a thousand pounds in a week from this time, am ruined—irretrievably ruined!” “And how can my marriage with John Gridley help you?” “He makes your hand the condition on which he will advance the money,” answered the maltster, in a low tone. “And that is the’man you trust and honor with your confidence!” ex- claimed May, indigNantly; “a man who will see his benefactor ruined unless he consent to be a party to» crueltyeand, injustice—a man who would buy his wife like mer- chandise! Oh, father; father! is not such a proposition sufficient to show. "7 The old maltster’s voice trembled as he spoke in reply: * “What am I to do? .Ruin.and beg- gary stare me in face; and, as a drowning man catches at straws, so do I at the faintest shadow which promis- es me rélHef from my difficulties.” “Listen to me, father; I have a plan in my head. I will postpone my deci- sion respecting John Gridley for an- other week; and if, at the end of that time, I cannot procure the thousand pounds you require, I will become his wife.” May spoke calmly and quietly, and her father little knew the struggle 4 You shall cast her to utter those words. (To be Continued.) of On a Time Schedule. ' “Madam, I shall have to charge you double price for your glass of frappe.” “Td like to know why.” “Well, we pay high rent and you have been so slow in eating it.”—Chie cago Tribune. Likes the Fresh Fruit, “By gum! Hulda,” said Unde Ephriam Skinner, biting into a luscious peach, “I like to have thers city folks up here for the summer.” “What fer, Ephraim?’ asxed Aunt | Hulda. “They bring such a heap of fresh fruit with ’em.”—Chicago Tribune. | | oe