myself anew of churlishness. I had not remained a very long time, when the sound of familiar voices arrested my attention. "O Mary! how can you be such a prudish old maid?" "I might rather ask, how can you be such a heartless flirt?" "You have the merit of plain speaking, certainly, Mary. How am I a heartless flirt?" Mean to listen, but I couldn't help it. "Why, for weeks past, you have been devoted to Mr. My own name, unmistakably. I turned hastily, but the speakers had moved off; they continued their conversation, but I lost a part of what they said. I heard Mary Munson say: "But everybody else thought you would accept him; and now Edward Tyler"— "Ha, ha, ha!" interrupted my Eleanor, "that is a good joke! Accept that grandfather Longlegs! Ha, ha, ha! that is too good! He, beside Edward Tyler! Why, he always reminds me of a pair of kitchen tongs, with a bunch of tow on the top of them! His great long arms like an ape! his face like" something about "fierce as a frog;" they❘ turned, and I lost that. My heart thumped so, I nearly betrayed myself; I fancied they must have heard its beatings. Mary said something more, I did not hear what, and they departed. My ears burnt, my cheeks were hot, my heart thumped. Listeners never do hear any good of themselves. Where was my angel now? Vanished-lost; not a pin-feather left. I emerged from my retreat, and passed before a large mirror, and paused to behold and read myself with the key furnished me by my charmer.. "Grandfather Longlegs!" "Ape!" "Peacock!" when, sure enough, there were my long, dangling arms, and my ungainly legs, that couldn't boast a decent calf. I congratulated myself now that I had not tried to dance. I didn't look much like a peacock at this moment. The words of Edward Tyler rang in my ears, and I repeated aloud: "When an old muff like you leaves his books and goes to love-making, ten to one he'll make a fool of himself, and it's a question of vanity between you. You're not in love.” True, alas! my idol was shattered. There had been so much of coarseness in her manners and tone, as well as in her unfeeling words! Where was all the softness and tenderness that had held me enchanted? Gone, all gone. I caught a glimpse of Edward and Eleanor. They came towards me. I stood still to meet them, and saluted her graciously. "Why did you encourage his attentions, What a metamorphose in that beautiful face! then?" Mary began again. 'Encourage his attentions? The stupid old peacock! to have the vanity to believe any girl would look at him!" Oh, the scornful utterance of that him! "Why not? when she did look at him, and in such a way as to deceive other people also." Then they moved off again, and I could not hear what But here was some balm for my wounded vanity. Good Mary! I half loved her already. "Come, Mary, don't make a stupid of yourself here! Wait a moment; see if my hoops are all right. I hope mine don't fling out when I dance, like that horrid Bella Green's; at all events, I am sure my skirts are whiter and nicer than hers. Who ever did hear of wearing a colored underskirt to a ball? But I suppose she is too literary to know the difference; and her mother is so economical that she thinks colored skirts save washing; and, besides, Bella never did and never will know how to dress. Her skirts are-are always so skimpy." Here followed more feminine talk about dress, that was too uninteresting to remember, or make any impression when my heart was so full. "There, there, Mary! that will do! Now, don't begin to preach again. Come along! I want to catch Oliver Jenkins, and keep him to torment Bella. She thinks she has him all safe." It had to me now a lumpy, earthy, commonplace expression. It was Cleopatra, a stage queen, stripped of her tinsel, in her every-day attire-in Edward's phraseology, bosh! That day's experience made a wiser man of me. But I cannot endure the sight of camellias and hot-house flowers ever since, and I sometimes feel very nervous when I get into a crowded omnibus, and never take one if I can possibly avoid it; never, unless very late to dinner. ONE day I walked along a glade Like light it seemed to me, and filled At last I spied it, all alone, THE MISTAKE. BY GUS WARREN, JINGLE, jingle, jingle! Margaret Somers looked up from the sketch she was engaged in copying as the sound of sleigh-bells rang out upon the clear cold air. A sleigh containing three ladies and a gentleman flew past, behind a pair of spirited bay horses. A mingled sound of bells and musical laughter filled the air as it darted rapidly out of sight, a waving of glit tering plumes and glistening of furry robes. The lady and gentleman occupying the front seat of the sleigh-what a picture of manly and womanly beauty! She, fair as the morning's 'sunlight, the golden hair heavily braided about the young face, over which a snowy plume floated from a blue velvet hat. Well did Margaret Somers know how witchingly beautiful was Adalaide Mason. The exquisitely-tinted complexion; the large blue eyes, with their drooping, delicately-veined lids; the perfect features, and matchless grace of mannersand she pictured them together, his strong, manly beauty contrasting so strikingly with her womanly fairness. the bitter cup; yet her life had been shadowed by dark clouds, and it was only by the eyes of faith that she could see the light beyond. Eighteen months ago she had been the belle of the circle in which she moved. And well she deserved to be, if beauty, wealth, and accomplishments, accompanied by a gentle heart and a refined and elevated taste, could be said to deserve the position. Two years before, her father had died, leaving his motherless child to the care of her uncle, and his immense property in the hands of his solicitor, to be held in trust until she was of age. The family of Mr. Mason, into which Margaret was received upon the death of her father, consisted of himself, his wife, and an only daughter. Mr. Mason was a good-hearted though timid man, who stood in great dread of his fashionable and ambitious wife. Adalaide, in appearance, we have already described. Fully as beautiful as Margaret, she had noue of the gentle and truthful nature belonging to her; and, from her cousin's first entrance in her home, she had looked upon her as a rival, and regarded her with envy and dislike. In public she was always smiling and agreeable, but in private she never lost an opportunity of displaying her ill nature to the object of it. Not only in the fashionable circle in which she moved was Margaret respected and admired; in the dwellings of children of poverty, to the cold, and hungered, and suffering she went, taking warmth, and food, and comfort, and there her presence was hailed as an angel of light. It caused no surprise, then, when it became known that Guy Howard, well known for his deeds of mercy, was her most devoted admirer; people immediately voted it a match. Of course, she was secretly envied, and by none more than Adalaide, for Guy Howard was decidedly a catch. Young, talented, and handsome, well known in the literary world, der that far-sighted mammas smiled compla cently while he did the agreeable to their pretty daughters, and no wonder that they felt cruelly outraged when it became under For he was noble, and good, and beautiful, in form and feeling. She had loved him once, and had confessed that she loved him as he had held her trembling hand in his, while he told her that the best energies of his life should be devoted to her. His dark eyes had spoken passionately then, and his lips, but that seemed so long ago, and he had forgotten her now. This was the first time she had seen him in months, and all the old dreams and memories she had tried to bury forever rose up in her heart. It was only eighteen months before, but she had seemed to live an age since then. Long after they had passed, she sat there with a dreary, far-off, dreaming look in her eyes, and her pencil lying idly by her side. A deli-possessed of both wealth and position, no woncately-rounded form, of medium height, showed to advantage in the neatly-fitting dark dress; a plain linen collar was fastened by a delicate cameo pin; while cuffs of snowy linen encircled her slender wrist, and showed to advan-stood that he was engaged to Margaret Somers. tage the faultless hand. The complexion was clear, though pale, the brows plainly yet delicately traced, while the eyes, large and dark, were almost bewildering in their wondrous beauty of light and expression. Every feature was perfect, the nostril quivering now with suppressed feeling, and the red lips compressed over the white, even teeth; the dark hair, waving from the broad, white brow, fell in a cloud of dusky curls about the shoulders. There was a loving tenderness about Margaret Somers, and a womanly dignity which commanded respect, while it won the heart. A sad light away down in the depths of the eyes, and a slight shade of sadness about the sweet mouth, were all that told you she had drank of But, never giving a thought of what others were thinking about it, she gave herself up to the great happiness of loving and being loved. But human happiness is of short duration. One morning she had excused herself from a shopping expedition with Adalaide on the plea of a headache, but had scarcely retired to her room, when she was summoned to meet her uncle below stairs. He was pale with excitement, and it was several minutes before he could find speech to tell her that the man with whom her father had entrusted her property had absconded, taking with him not only hers, but a large sum of borrowed money from various firms in the city. It was a heavy stroke to her; but, after the first shock, relying upon her faith in Guy, and her own energies, she 'met it firmly. Leaving Aunt Mason to make her excuses, should any one inquire for her, she again retired to her room to think it all over. She would release Guy from his engagement; or, at least, she would make the offer, for she felt that he would never accept it. She resolved this from the first. He had gone out of town to-day, but to-morrow she would see him and tell him all. But Mr. Howard did not go out of town that day; other business had detained him, which, after dispatching, he started to call at Mr. Mason's. Having been occupied all the morning, he had heard nothing of the news which had caused Mr. Mason so much alarm. He had encountered Adalaide, and, as Margaret paused a moment before her window, she saw them coming in together. She made a few alterations in her toilet, and prepared to go below, for she wanted to have it all over. As Adalaide and Guy had entered the drawing-room, they had encountered a Mr. Grey, a young lawyer of some note and of good family; eminently respectable, else he would not have been received there. He looked anything but pleasant as his eye fell upon the young❘ lady's escort; and, bowing coldly, he passed out. Adalaide had been rallying Guy upon the favor which some supposed rival had been receiving from her cousin, and now she saw a new opportunity of trying to excite his jealousy, especially as Mrs. Mason apologized for Margaret's absence by saying she was not well, and had received some very bad news that morning, remarking that Mr. Grey had just called, but without stating that her niece had not seen him. Perhaps she forgot to mention it; perhaps, like her daughter, she was only performing her part in a play of duplicity.. "I think she is very selfish in denying herself to you, especially as she has just seen Mr. Grey," remarked Adalaide, as her mother left the room. "She certainly cannot be suffering to any great extent, as I am quite certain that I saw her at the window as we came home. To tell the truth, Mr. Howard, I am afraid there is something wrong somewhere." Her voice was very grave as she said this. "Mr. Grey has called quite frequently, and I have observed quite a change in her of late. Then, you remarked no alteration in her manners?" "I can't say that I have, Miss Mason; I certainly have unbounded confidence in her," he answered, with dignified coldness, although the serpent even then was striking its fangs into his heart, for he was naturally a jealous man, and this Adalaide knew. "Oh, of course! and it is but natural that you should have perfect confidence in her, for I have observed that she always appears gentle and amiable in your presence." "As she really is, Miss Mason. Perhaps you are not aware that you are speaking of my betrothed. A man would not dare speak so. Το a lady, I only refuse to listen." "I certainly do know it, Mr. Howard, and you do not know the pain it cost me to speak thus of one who ought to be as a sister. Nothing but my sincere friendship for you, and the deep respect that I feel, could compel me to the painful duty I have undertaken. We are all liable to be deceived. As I said before, I have observed the very marked attention Mr. Grey has been paying my cousin, but I never suspected anything serious until yesterday, when, coming suddenly into the drawing-room, I found them sitting upon the sofa yonder. They were not at first aware of my presence, and I heard her say that it was too late now; she was bound, and she would keep her prom. ise, though she would ever regard him with the warmest feeling of friendship, and hoped he would never forget her; that she would love him while life lasted. She probably perceived how shocked I was as she looked up and saw me standing near, for she became confused, and he abruptly took his leave. I give you the facts of the case just as they are, though you do not know the pain it has cost me." Her deeply serious tones and grieved manner carried conviction with it; and, as his fine lips closed over his white teeth, while his bosom heaved, and his cheek became pale with suppressed agony, she placed her white hand softly upon his shoulder, while her tender voice sank to a tearful softness as she murmured: "I am sorry, so sorry for you, Guy, my friend; but you must bear it like a man." There were actual tears in her eyes as she spoke, and he almost crushed within his own the snowy hand as he murmured, in a voice hoarse from suppressed emotion: "It is hard, it is terrible; but I will bear it like a man. I will do my duty, God helping me." Margaret, through the partly-opened door of the drawing-room, heard the last whispered words of Adalaide, and Guy's reply. Everything swam around her, and she leaned against the wall for support. A moment, and she had partly recovered. Groping in the sudden darkness which enveloped her, she ascended the stairs and entered her own room. It was all coming upon her at once. The other trial, oh, that was nothing! What was the loss of a little gold, to the loss of a whole life and love and happiness? For, with her mind already heavily burdened, she had wrongly interpreted the few sentences she had heard. Guy did not love her, and he did love Adalaide; he had not known it until too late, and now he intended to do his duty by keeping the secret of his love from her, and making her his wife, regardless of his own pains. But this he should never do. He should never sacrifice himself and her. The world was wide enough for them both to live in, and yet live apart. Once she could not think so, but nothing was impossible which duty commanded. She had accomplishments by which she could obtain a respectable livelihood, and she would go away, she did not care where, to-morrow, to-day, the sooner the better. She made up her mind to this, and then went to work to pack up her clothes. Her wardrobe was rich and varied. She took the best, packing them away in as quick and neat a manner as possible. She had a little money, which would do for present expenses, and she must look around her for employment for future support. A little time sufficed to arrange all her things, and then she sat down to write to Guy. Not a long letter, nor one whose meaning was very plain, else it might have been better for her. She told him that she knew how noble he was, and hoped she had not been too late in discovering his feelings; she begged him not to blame her for what she was doing, for she could not bear to meet him now. She would go away, and he would be free to act as his heart dictated. She hoped he would be very happy; hoped they would both be happy, and learn to think of her kindly. And that was all. She had scarcely finished it, when there came a tap on the door, and Adalaide entered, smiling and triumphant. "Why, Maggie, what does this mean? Do you think of leaving so soon?" she asked, in a surprised tone, as she saw the preparations that had been made. "Yes, I shall go away this evening," with a sickly attempt at a smile. "You know I must take care of myself now, and the sooner I begin the better. I dare say you will get along very well without me,” she added, with a slight shade of bitterness in her tones; she had not intended it, but still there was bitterness. "Oh, I shall survive it! But what will Mr. Howard, what will society say to this sudden freak of yours?" "It makes but little difference to me what he or it thinks." There was pride in the tone then. "Society cannot benefit me now, nor 1 it. I have released Mr. Howard from his engagement. This note will explain all to him. Will you give it to him, please, when he calls? And, Ada, I hope you will be sincerely happy, as I shall try to be content." Adalaide could scarcely hide her exultation as she took the note from the hand, which trembled in spite of the will of the owner, as it was extended toward her. She might have asked an explanation from Margaret in regard to her proceedings, but she thought if she knew nothing she could not answer Guy Howard's questions, so she asked nothing. "I can get sewing to do," resumed Margaret, quietly, "or give instructions in drawing or music; anything that is honorable." "You certainly do not expect us to recognize you then, and receive you as a relative. You will not stay here and disgrace us by such proceedings. You will leave New York, then!"' exclaimed Ada, breathless with indignation and eagerness. Indignation that her cousin could so disgrace them, and eagerness to have her secure from meeting Guy Howard. "I shall not trouble you, Ada, nor disgrace you either. I do not think of leaving the city at present; but that need not annoy you; I shall not wish to see old friends." "No, I suppose not; in your changed circumstances it would not be agreeable, perhaps. Even Mr. Howard will probably be glad that you have released him. At least I infer so from what I heard him say." As she left the room she noticed the tight compression of the lips, and the regal uprising of the little head, and she knew that she was safe; having aroused pride in her cousin's bosom, she felt confident that she had the game in her own hand. Ere evening Margaret saw her trunks safely delivered at the cheap lodgings that she had procured in a distant part of the city. The place that she had selected as her future home was the front room of a little house occupied by a poor woman whose husband had died in the army. Mrs. White had been sick and destitute, and Margaret had assisted her. She wished to find a quiet tenant for her little front room, and Margaret appeared just at the right time. The good woman was much surprised at the appearance of the young lady, but a few words sufficed to make her acquainted with the story, and in a very short time Margaret was installed in her new home. For a stipulated price Mrs. White was to board her and do her washing. She had only now to look around for some means of work. She had a decided taste for drawing, and her pictures had been much admired, and, taking a few of her best sketches, she went forth to seek employment. She had better fortune than she anticipated. She was in a part of town almost unknown to her, so she stopped at the first picture shop she saw. The picture dealer received her with gentlemanly politeness, examined and praised her sketches, and ended by giving her some sketches to copy. Up to this time her mind had been so occupied with the strange scenes through which she was passing, that she had found but little time to reflect upon her misery. Now, however, when she sat down to the nevervarying monotony of her life, a murmur against fate arose in her heart. Her whole nature cried out against this bitter decree which shut out all the joy from her life, and it was only by the voice of prayer that it could be subdued. The righteous are never forsaken, and this time of sore need she found in him a steadfast friend. She was never unemployed. When her time was not engrossed in her occupation of copying, she spent it in visiting among the poor and destitute, and, by contrasting their situation with hers, she learned submission, | and became grateful to the Mercy which had thus enabled her to live a life of usefulness. If not really happy, she did not indulge in useIss and sinful repinings, and though her cross was heavy, meekly her heart bowed to the burden. Not that the warm, fervent love which she had borne Guy Howard could be supplanted by a cold, stoical indifference. No, her nature was too womanly, and the love had been too deep and fervent to be put away. It lived in her heart, but it was buried far below the calm surface of her life, a dream that must never be recalled. When Guy Howard left the residence of Mr. Mason on the day that Adalaide had made her revelations, he was ready to renounce all his faith in woman forever. He had loved her so devotedly, had thought her so pure and good and truthful, and yet she had deceived him so! Only the day before she had said she loved him, sitting by his side with her little hand resting in his; and, looking into her dark eyes, he had read only perfect love and truth. Oh, she was truthful, she did love him; he would see her, and she would explain it all. But his nature was a jealous one, and now that the suspicion had been forced upon his mind, everything went to strengthen it. Grey's late avoidance of him, for Grey had avoided him of late, his evident coolness when he had met him that particular morning, and, above all, her assuming sickness and refusing to see him, were not these sufficient proofs ? And yet he would not doubt her. He slept but little that night, and his sleep was disturbed by haunting images of Margaret Somers. Ten o'clock next morning found him in Mr. Mason's parlor listening to Miss Adalaide's exaggerated account of Margaret's "flight," as she chose to call it. "She intrusted this note to my care, Mr. Howard, and I hope it will throw some light upon her inexplicable proceedings, for she would tell us nothing, although mamma and I both besought her at least to tell us where she intended to go. In spite of all, she would say nothing to relieve our anxiety." He seized the extended letter eagerly, and Adalaide hid an exultant gleam by a drooping of the long lashes. She had previously read the note, and knew that what it contained would only strengthen his suspicions. "Nothing? No clue whatever?" she exclaimed, despairingly, as she saw the lips move firmly set and the pale cheek become paler. "Read for yourself. It is too true. God knows, if she had confided in me I should have never reproached her. If she had only been truthful with me!" He took his hat to leave, placing the little note tenderly in his bosom. Again a soft hand was laid detainingly upon his shoulders, while Adalaide sobbed, "Stay, Mr. Howard, oh, do not leave me! I too have felt the blow; I too have suffered. Let me be your friend." Again he pressed her hand, but the wound was too recent and too terrible for the balm of sympathy to heal; he uttered a few grateful words in a husky voice, and hurried from the room. The soft eyes, which he had seen melted in tears of sympathy, flashed after him a look of triumph and rage, while the sobbing voice changed to a tone of anger. "So I am to be despised for her, am I? We shall see, Guy Howard, we shall see. I shall yet see you kneel to me." Margaret Somers had gone, but Mr. Grey did not leave town. Report said that she had gone into a distant part of the State to some relative of her father's, and the Masons confirmed the report. Guy Howard's life varied but little from the old way; he neither plunged into dissipation, nor went to Europe. He studied more and he went into society less; he was a visitor at Mr. Mason's, perhaps not as frequent a one as once, but he went there often, and there he was always met with a ready sympathy and a sister's gentle tenderness from Adalaide. Mr. Grey had called but seldom, his visits were always constrained, and his manners especially when before Guy, were cold and chillingly courteous. It was very evident that he disliked Guy as much as one gentleman could dislike another. Mr. Howard became Adalaide's constant attendant in public, and society transferred the lover from Margaret to Adalaide. No such thought had ever entered his mind. He respected Adalaide for her seeming gentleness and womanly goodness; for her warm and ever ready sympathy in his sorrow; but it was only as a brother might love and respect a sister. He had loved and been betrayed; the wound was too recent to admit of a healing balm. After hearing of the loss of Margaret's property, he had attributed her leaving to that, or had vainly tried to believe that to have been the cause, for whenever he recalled the contents of her note, they gave the lie to the suggestion. She had found she did not love him, and in remorse she had also denied herself to her other love. How else could he account for her strange absence? He had made effort after effort to find her, to assure her of his forgiveness, but all had been in vain. Adalaide, who never lost an opportunity of strengthening the conviction that her cousin did not love him, assured him that she had left town, but in what direction she did not know. Every means was employed by him to find her, but his attempts had hitherto proved fruitless. |