LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 881, 21 April 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A WINTER’S TALE.

By E. E. Mulley,

“Wonder on till truth makes all things plain. ” Midsummer N> alt’s Dream, act v. sc. x. ( Continued ) ‘ Some letters are worth any money,’ said Phemie gaily. ‘Good-bye, Jenifer. Papa is waiting for me. ’ And off she ran to the garden, where Mr Seaton was pacing up and down, to keep himself warm, till she should join him. There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, just enough to make the proverbial white Chrispnas-day a reality ; and Phemie and her father started on their walk to church down the path from which the snow had been swept away. The lawn lay on each side of the low box hedges—a slightly sloping, smooth, white expanse, dotted here and there by the bare leafless tress, now decked by a mimic foliage of frost and icicles hanging from the branches. The red berries and green leaves of the tall holly bushes peeped out of frames of feathery snow flakes, which lay so lightly that the robins and sparrows perching on the twigs would scatter a white shower, a baby avalanche, on the equally white earth below. Phemie looked about her with a keen sense of pleasure on the outer world, that looked so fair this Christmas morning, as she passed out of the garden into the churchyard, which lay just across the road. Here the country-folk were straggling by twos and threes iuto the church. The arrival of the squire and his daughter was the signal for loiterers to hurry up ; and as Phemie stopped in the porch to take off some of her wraps more than one came forward to wish her a ‘ a merry Christmas. ’ * A happy one is best, my dear,’ said one old woman, remembering that those two up at Roscorla by themselves were not likely to have a very ‘ merry ’ one.

Phemie smiled at her. ‘Thank you,’she said. ‘Your wish has come to pass already. ’

How could it be otherwise ? for was not Christopher Kennicote thinking of her that day ? was not his letter - his first love-letter, which was to complete the happiness of this Christmas-day -even now on its way to her ?

Then Phemie went in at the church door, and took her seat at one corner of the old fashioned square pew, where she had sat since she was quite a little child, and put away the remembrance of Christopher Kennicote for awhile, less thinking of him she should say her prayers carelessly or irreverently, and forget that Christmas-day has a joy of its own, too often overlooked in mere yuletide merrymaking. The service over, Phemie, leaving her father to wait for the rector, who was going back to dine with them, passed quickly down the aisle and through the churchyard ; and ouce i utside the lych-gate she ran across the road and took a short cut over the snowcovered lawn, regardless of wet boots, in her impatience to reach home and get her letters She found that the postman had come, for the post bag lay on the hall table. She seized it, and unfastened it at once. There were only some half-dozen letters, and she turned them over hastily once, and then more slowly a second time, as if shejdoubtcd the evidence of her own eyes The happy look died out of her face, giving place to one of bewilderment and bitter disappointment. There was no letter either for her or for her father from Christopher Kennicote, and Phemie turned away, leaving the others behind her, with a miserable sensation of sorrowful surprise, and went up stairs to her own room. Jenifer met her on the stairs, and was struck with the change in Phemie’s manner; and remembering her anxiety about the letters that morning, guessed that the one she wanted most had not come, and ventured on a little bit of consolation.

‘ Maybe, dearie, the trains are late, and some of the letters won’t be here till to-mor-row. ’

Phemie cheered up at once. ‘ Jenifer, you are an angel,’ she cried ; ‘ you sensible old darling, I never thought of that. ’

So Phemie clutched at the hope held out to her, and buoyed up by it got 'hrough the rest of the day tolera ly cheerfully. She tried bravely to shake her disappointment, and devoted hersell to the entertainmeni of h r father’s guest, the new rector of Rose rla Church-town, who had come to the place during his a sence. He was a Mr Courtenay, a man of about five-au’-thirty, in p rsen 1 appearance tall and dark, the grave mtel tctual face bespeaking the schol r y bent of the nrnd, even as the mergetic decisive manner which so rar- 1 y accompan es a taste for study told of the active temperament that made him a hard worker in his parish ; no mere studious theologian devoted to his books, defining points of faith, while men outside his library wal’s weie living and dying in one gigantic unbelief. Such a man was not likely to find much of congenial compani nship in the squire, except from the tact of his b< ing a fellowman, to whom he could speak from the common ground of equal social po.-ition. Th sin itself w-!? a sufficient inducement to make Arthur Court nay gladly accept the squ re’s offer of hospitality, and eat his Chri-tmas dinner at Ro-oor a. After hi- introduction to the squire’s daughter, whom he now met for the fi s 1 time, he saw no r ason to regret having don* so, as Phemie made a very charming host ?cs, in spite of her being a little absent-mind d at tim s, for which she would apologise so pe i ent ! y he cou d not but forgive her, though he found himse f wondering mor than < nee what the cause of her preo. cupadon might be. Phemie, on her part, scarcely gave him a thought after he had gone, except to reproach herself for a want of courtesy, in allowing her attention to wander off from what he was saying to thoughts of Christo pher Kennicote, and into vague surmises of what that one was saying and doing just then, and how he was spending his Christ mas.

The next morning Phemie name down to breakfast hopeful, almost certain she should find the hitherto missing letter on her plate. But no ! the pink hawthorn pattern trailed over it, unhidden by the expected envelope; and then Phemie took her place behind the urn, and gave her father his breakfast, much too miserable to cat any herself ; and more than one big tear fell into the teapot and upon her untasted meal, which the squire was too busy with his newspaper to notice, and she was soon able to slip away to her own room, where she cried from sheer disappointment till she could cry no more. (To be Continued.)

Honeycomb twisting, worked in pink, blue, or amber wools, makes very handsome quilts. For children, the English and Rusian blouses are still the favorites. These have kullt or box-pleated backs, with princess fronts and trimmings of fur, braid, or embroidery. If there is axy truth ijt the belief that those who suffer greatly in this world will escape scorching in the next, then will the victims of rheumatism assurely be unscathed by the eternal fires; for to nothing short of martydom at the stake can their tortures be adequately compared. Dyspepsia and urinary diseases, especially gravel, also inflict unspeakable misery. Eradicate the cause of these sufferings with Udolpho Wolfe’s Schiedam Aromatic Schxapps.—[Advt.]