POOR LITTLE LIFE. (Concluded.) VII.

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1830, 29 March 1884, Page 1 (Supplement)

POOR LITTLE LIFE. (Concluded.) VII.

For some dajs pi«t thcio bad been ft talk of George and Evelyn riding np to ' the hills," to call on some fiiends who lived at Belvidere, and to give Geoige an opportunity of seeing borne of the mountain scenery for which the parish of St. Andri w's is so justly famed. Something, however, had always occurred to prevent the realisation of the project. But time v/ts fleeting; the November " pea<-ons '' were at hand. Already the light cirrus clouds, which the negroes designate "iain-fc>eodV were to be seen in the morning sky. Already, towajds evening, the air v/js growing thick with vapour ; ami at nightrf, the swarms ot iiioaquitocs and flies were, as Gcoige cxprcvi-cd it, " moie than human nature could b' ii." If the trip to " llio hill-s " vas to tike j>lace at all, it was incumbent that it should b-~ got over before " the gnllie-s vero down." Wnen the mountain brooks Jiad become lading tor rents, when the diy watei courses had bmmio broad and swiftly flowing liveis, vben the daily rains were falling like t olid sheets of water, tiavelling was difficult, even in the plains. Amongst the hill^, it was not to be thought of. " I would not delay another day if I were you, George 1 "' said Mis. Duiham at bicsikfasfc that morning. "We'll sfcait Mannie with the ponie3 to the Gardens now. You and Evelyn can follow in the cairiage later. Once you get m among "the bush," you won't need to fear the sun. You will be at Belvideio in time for afternoon tea ; and you can ride home again in the cool of the evening." They started, therefore, after lunch, Evelyn in her gray liding-habit and black hat; Geoige equipped with spuis and gaiter?, and carrjircga heavy hunting crop iv his hand. A little above the village of Gardens they left the carriage. Evelyn mounted her fat otd pony Jack; George bestiid old Blunderboie, a famous hill-pony, that, after having been owned by a succession of governors, judges, and other high oUieialrf, had now become the property of Mrs. Duiham of Prospect Gardens. It was a steep though lovely ride. A road theie could scaicely be said to be. But a mountain trick, paved by 'the hard soles of many generations of ncgiocs, and tho hoofs of the hoises and mules of the countiypeople who daily biought down their coilee and bread kind to bell at Kingston market, showed the route. And if, at times, (heie were great travelling bouldexs in the path to be ciicumvented, and tiny tiiekling ihulets to be crossed ; or a fallen branch ot bamboo to be stepped across ; or bits of the rock, worn by much traiiic into the foemblanco of miniatuie staiicasea, to be climbed ; or a rustic bridge, spanning the scene of some lecent landslip, to be gingcily tia\cr&ed — these and such-like obstacles only added a zest to the journey, whilst they heightened a thousandfold the pictiuesquenoss of the scene. And then, the marvellous setting of the picture! — the arching fringe of bamboos that bordered the path, the checkered shadows falling across the loadway, the banks of niaiden-hair fein and begonia growing by its sides, the tree-ferns at intervals on its margin — was there ever a wood- walk more like a poet's dream, moie meet tor lovexs' talk, more adapted for the free thrust and pany, the mutual interchange of youthful joy 3 and sorrows ! It wa3 the influence of the sceneiy that pi« yoked the conversation -which ensued — there could be no doubt of that. Nothing but it could have induced Geoigo to lay bare the feeciet recesses of his heall. And if any middle-aged reader haply doubts the assertion, let him appeal to his own memory for it 3 corroboratiou. Let him ask himself, looking across the table to her who sits opposite to him, whether he would ever have been able to summon up courage to put the momentous question, if nature, that wise counsellor, that sympathetic alley, had not come to his aid on that eventual day ? It was that quiet woodshaded nook on the Thpmes, that sohtaiy crevice between two ovei -shadowing rocks by the seashore, the gentle murmur of the waves on that sandy beach, that lonely hill-top, the ruins of that deserted castle by the llhine, the placid music of that mountain brook, the splash of that moss-grown fountain in those unfrequented gardens, that aimed hi 3 voice with strength to make the fateful demand. And when he had obtained the answer that he sought — the answer that he hoped foi, yet scarcely ventured to expect — was it not land nature that congratulated him the hrst, and with ita thousand voices ppread abroad the joyful intelligence, till rock and shoie, river and mountain, wood and forest, seemed to echo and reverbeiate with his joy 1 It was not indeed, till their return journey that George yielded to the powerful promptings of the voice of native; and when at length his lips were unlocked, the result was scarcely such as to justify the expectation of even a qualified success. Indeed, the conversation began with something very like a quarrel. " I say, Evelyn," said George abruptly, " is theie anything between you and Captain Hillyard?" " Between me and Captain Hillyard 1 " she repeated with surprise. " I don't unclei&tapd you, Geoige." " I thought I waB plain enough," be replied with ill concealed bitterness. " Perhaps you were, George. But I fail to sec either why you should ask me this, or what gives you the right to put the question." " Oh, if that is the way you wish to take it, I have no difficulty in giving you an answer. I asked because 1 thought you seemed put out when the children mentioned his name this morning ; and as for ray right to ask, I'm your cousin, and I think that's title enough." • ( I was put out, I admit," replied Evelyn ;

'"though why, I'm sure I don't know, d ldren are constautly saying disagree' >'c thing?; they do it to torment. Of course, it is very silly to be annoyed by them, but one can't help it always." 11 Bnt is it true, Evelyn ? " "Is what true?" " That you correspond with him ? " "Of course, it 13 true. Why shouldn't [ ? Tic is one of oue most intimate friends. I have a whole drawerful of his letters," added with a young pirl's innocent malice. II You keep his letters, then?" 11 1 keep yours, too, George," she said, si. iling upon him. " But that's different. I'm your cousin.' 1 " Oh, no doubt, it's different ; but for the natter of that, I keep all letters." "I wish you'd burn mine, then," he answered cynically. " I've no particular desire to have my letters tied up along with th )se ol that fellow." "Why, George, how cross you are ! What has poor Captain Hillyard done to oft nd \ou 9 I thought you said he wasn't half a bad fellow, after you h^d met him the oiher ni«ht at the Governor's ; and I was sopleiiscd to hoar you say so, because we aie all so fond of him at Prospect Gardens." George flicked his pony testily with his riding-whip. " I don't see an} thing so particularly attractive about him. He'd plea * mi enough for a soldier, I daresay; and, no doubt," he added, " he's no end of aa Adonis among the ladies. I'd like to see what c ort of a figure he'd cut in London, though ; Jed <:oon find his level there." " And his level would be ?" George shrugged his shoulders. " I think you aic veiy unjust to Cap'ain Ilillyard, George," said Evelyn with rising colour. " A gentleman is always lecoguned as a gentleman wheiever he goes, and Captain Hillyard is quite a gentleman. Besides, I don't think you should speak to me in this way about h^i. I have told you that he is one of our most intimate friends." " And likely, no doubt, to be still lnori intimate than he is," said George. " I hope so," replied Evelyn calmly. They zodo on in silence for a space, and then Gcoige returned to the charge. "All the same, Evelyn," he said, " you have not answered my question." "What question?" she asked, coldly. " I asked if there was anything between you and Captain Hillyard," " Once for all, George," she replied with warmth, " (hat ia not a question that I think you have any light to ask me." " And once for all, Evelyn," he answered, " I have told you I have that light. I'm jour cousin — your nearest male* relation, Evelyn." " Then you are piesuming on your irlationship, George." she answered hotly. " I don't think I am. Ido care for you, Evelyn," he added, in a somewhat lower tone ; " and you know, if I could do anything to piomote youi happine&a, I should gladly do so." " You lako a curious way of showing your interest in me, then. Do you think you are promoting my happiness by saying all sorts of di&agieeablo things ?" " If I have done kj I am sorry for it, and I beg your pardon. But I don't think the question I asked was one which I was not entitled to ask." "But indeed it waV f>he said, still in anger. "No one, excepting my own mother, had a right to ask me any such thing." "I told you, Evelyn," he said earnestly, " if I asked it, I meant no impertinence." " You say so now ; bnfc "—" — '• But it is true, Evelyn. If I did not care for you — moie even than a cousin— l should not have &aid a word on the subject. I asked you, and I ask you btill, Evelyn, because " He hesitated for a moment, and then he added : " Because I love you 1" Evelyn's face became pale, but she did not speak. "Because I love you, Evelyn," he continued ; " and because Evelyn, my darling !" he said with passion, " will you be my wife ?" Pie drew his horse's head nearer to her ; but she moved hers away from him. "No, no!" he cried, seizing hold of her horse's bridle. " Answer me, Evelyn I" But she only shook her head. " Evelyn, say you love me ! I Know you love me!" he added with all a lover' 3 impetuosity. " Say you will be my wife !" " I don't know," she murmured. " 0 George, don't let us speak about such things ! We have been so happy since you came. Why should we change " He did not let her complete her sentence. " Yes, Evelyn," he said, interrupting ; " just so happy, that we must never, never part ! Evelyn 1" he cried, laying hold'of her hand, "say you will be ray wifel" " I cannot, I cannot I" she answered. " 0 George, don't ask me !" She struggled to release her hand ; but he held it within his own as in a vice. " EveH-n," he replied, '• yo'i must answer me I Why should it not be ? Why should you not marry me ? Can you not love me, even a little?" he said. " I do ; you know I do, George. I have always Wed you— loved you dearly — as a cousin." " As a cousin !" he sneered. " There is no one I love better — no one," 3he baid— " and there never will be ; But, 0 George, spare me 1 Be generous! Let us continue as we are. Why should wo change ? " "No 1" he said, bitterly ; " that can never be. You say you lovo me, and yet you refuse to be my wife!" " I have never thought about marriage ; I have never thought of you except as a cousin. I am too young to think about anything else. I shall not be eighteen till Christmas Day." " Your own mother was married younger than that. Evelyn, if you refuse me now, we can never be the same to each other again 1" The girl dropped her veil— her tears were falling fast now. " Never the same again P he repeated. They were fast nearing the end of their ride. At their feet lay the Hope River, basking in the pale light of the setting sun. Through the breaks in " the bush," they could discover the shingled roofs of thehouses, The heat of the day wag over ; the " dove's twilight had begun. Already the decreasing light was assumiug the duskier shades of the raven's wing. In a few minutes more the night would ba upon them. " And if it can never be, Evelyn," he went on, " the sooner we part the better I" Still on they rode side by side without exchanging a woid. It was quite dark now, and the path was scarcely distinguishable. The first stars were " sprinkling the sky ;" thelirst fireflie3 were Hitting out and in amongst the black foliage of the bamboos that bordered the side of the road. A thick dew was falling too ; the horses' manes were wet with it. Ac for George, ho felt chilled through and through to the bone. "Ahl" he said, with, a sigh, as they emerged upon the high-road at length, " I am glad we are out of the wood ; I can see the carriage lamps on the road before us. But" " George ! " said Evelyn, suddenly bringing her borse over be&ide his and slipping her hand into her cousin's. " How late you are children 1 " said Mrs. Durham, coming out to the porch to meet them. " Have you enjoyed your ride? " " I have never had a more delightful — and if I live to a thousand, I shall never forget this day 1 " replied her nephew. "That's right!" she said, kissing her daughter as she alighted from her horse. " And Evelyn," I've a piece of news for you.

d'ljifcain Ri'u.u.Hias lven here, rind tdh me L>i ttfc he h er.gc^ccl to Miiiam Da Cos' a. Now, rr>« liolii of you, and chess. Dinner \\ ill be icndy in lc c 3c 3 than hall'-an-hour." VIII. In the lives of all men, and of all women also, there me tiuet"=i of lime, of greater or less extent, that have no hWorv. Homo arc happy, some are unhappy. Must of them aic lnrJitfeienfc. Like low-iymtf valleys between Uvo mountain peaks, tVsy srrve to aceentuatc the events which precede arid succeed them. On one of tnese, George was now about to entoi. It lasted till tho week before Christinas. It was the happiest period of bis life. It was the flowery crown of Evelyn's. Their days glided by as the days weie wont to glide, "When Man was young, ivnd Life ■was epic. Jamacia became, for the nonce, an Arcadia ; George and Evelyn wore Daphnis and Chloe. Longus himself might have found a subject for his pen in the pure, tho faithful, and tho cloudless loves of the cousins. But for his diary — a diary l:ept negligently and irre^alaily, as the diaries of happy lovers generally are, but which, in long aftei -years, come to be regaided by him as the most precious of nil his earthly possessions — George could never have told ho <v this time was passed. Day {succeeded day, week followed week, and each was brighter and happier and moie pleasuie-fraught than its predecessor. One night xheie was a great ball at Queen's House, given in George's honour, at which Evelyn, dressod in white, with eaeh'iiis in her hair, and peails round her neck, was the belle and the queen. One day theie was a gardenparty at the Chief Justice's, and dancing in A marquee to tho stirring strains of the band I of the .Second West; and heie, again, Evelyn bo^e oil the palm fioni all competnoia. Another day the excitement was the anival of a telegram from Lady Duihara, in which she congiatulated her sun on the excellence of his choice. There were entries oi dinnerparties innumerable ; for all the plains had deigned ro approve (he engagement, and were anxious to show their approval in the orthodox manner. Then came '■ the seasons," v.hen all festivities peiforce ceased, and Gecuge, almost entirely confined to the house, was fain to confers to his) jouimJ that he ate too much, slept too much, could get no exorcise, and was foeling bilioiid and out ot soit3. But ihe rains passed away, and amusements of all kjudy b?gt»n again — di^uer-partie-i, dances, and at-home*, kettledrums, luncheons, and balls. Ever} day had its function. It almost teemed as if the plains had taken it into their head that Jamaici hospitality was on iU trial, and that they were determined to vindicate its claim to be socially as well as physically the Queen of the Antilles. " It's as bad as London in the season," wrote Geuige in his journal. "Itis a neverceasing loand of gaiety and dissipation. E\elyn sflys it iy all meant out of civility to me. But sometimes I would gladly diopenje with the compliment. lam feeling the heat a good deal. All tho blood m nay body seems eollpc'.ed in ray head, I have not got over my thiint yet. I dunk ail day — anything I can lay my hands on. Bui lemonade — the juicd of two or thiee limes squeezed into a tumbler of water, sweetened, and with a big lump of ice in it, is tho bast of <ill." It has been decided, after numberless family councils and much communication both by telegraph and by letter with Lady Durham at Deepdule, thai, George and Evelyn weie to le rnamed in England ; and as there was leally no reason why the hap pine-, ot the loveis should bo delayed, Mrs. Duiham had detexmm^c! tnat&he and 'her daughters should go homo with George ; and that as soon as Evelyn's trousseau could bo got ready, the marriage should take place. But his aunt w.is resolved that George should adhere to his oiigii'al intention, and spend his Christmas in Jamaica. Christmas day was Evelyn's birthday ; and Mrs. Durham designed to celebrate tho double event with a dinner and a dance, which should not only be a return for all the attention shown to George by " the dwellers of the plains," but a sort of official announcement of her daughters approaching marriage. As Ghiisirnas-tide approached, Mrs. Durliam'j time was much occupied. Not only were there the preparations for her ball to be made ; but the arrangements for her contemplated "trip off" necessitated matay visits to Kingston and much consultation with attorneys and polioitors. The cousins weie consequently left very much to themselves. It happened that Mis. Durham had occasion to visit a small property of hers called Blairadam Castle, about eleven or twelve mileafrom Kingston ; and, as the Balls of the Marumee River had to be passed on the way, it was determined to make a picnic of the excuision, to give George the chance of seeing the only waterfall in Jamaica. The morning of the expedition broke blight and clear. The heat was gieat ; but a fresh "Ilock " wind — locally known by the name of " the Doctor" — was blowing, and pi evented it ftom being oppressive. The cavalcade staited, shortly after breakfast, in two " machines." In the first were Mrs. Durham and her two younger daughters. In the other — a single buggy, drawn by two sti bboin mules, with Mannio the undergroom nanging on to the knifeboard behind — a regular ' planter's turn-out," as Mrs. Durham called it — weie George and Evelyn. Foi tho first seven miles of the journey, following the course of the Windward Road and passing Bock Fort, where the convicts fiom the Penitentiary, under charge of boatswains aimed with loaded rifles, were at work on the limestone quarries. They emerged upon a shingly beach, bordered with buhu&hes and the broad-leaved seaside grape. Then came a stretch of white road, hedged with gigantic cactus and pricklypears; then a dry river to be traversed; then another stretch of dazzling road ; then another dry river, and so on, till they reached the little roadside tavern where their moun-tain-ponies awaited them. Entering upon a mountain gorge, through which flowed the impetuous Marnniee Eiver, they rode on for a couple of miles farther. The road, or rather track, crossed and recrossed the stream no less than seven times in the most eccentiic manner, according as the one side or the other of the bank had been least eaten away by the late November floods. At one time the travellers had actually to wade their way through the rough bed of the ; mountain torrent, picking their steps between blocks of limestone as large as boulders on some wild Highland moor. For the first mile or so there was nothing voy particular either in the scenery or the vegetation. The fan- like thatch palm was common. The corato or aloe, with its sp;ke of sweet-scented flowers — from which, tradition relates, the idea of the candlesticks in the Jewish tabernacle was derived — flourished luxuriantly. A few llianas hung down from the cliffs ; and maiden-hair and the flowering fern showed fresh and green in shady nooks amongst the recks. But as they advanced farther into the heart of the mountains, they felt as if getting into the grip of a vice. The walls of the gorge narrowed, and became sheer-dow.n precipices, almost bare of verdure, and rising to an enormous height. The boulders in the bed of the stream grew larger. Then, all of a sudden, they found themselves at the foot of- the Fallj, looking up at a rope of water same two hundred and fifty feet high, tearing down over the cliffs, and making the whole goxge resound with its rash and its roar and

! its shiver. Crossing the stream once #ig f .i i, | they came upon Ih-j Staircase, a partial /• covered ascending passage, tunnelled uul of the limestone rock, which led by a wind ug and devious route to the top of thf Fulls. It did not require an expeiienaed geological tye to explain the cause of this curiou3 roadway. It was the old bed of the river, or rather the outlet by which it had forced a way through the rock, before it found its present issue in the JY.IK There were p >rtions of it almost like Kits' Coty House in Cornwall ; and the craggy masses wh.oh formed its roof were as distinctly separa-ed fiom the parent mass as if they had b sn dropped down upon it by a glacier. But the rounded outlines of the inner surfaces of this roof disclosed the action of water, not of ice. The space 3 ar>^, crevices between (.he stones were only the result of the unequal texture of the limestone of which the >. Lit* was composed. Issuing from the Staircase, the travel lsi'3 found themselves on a flat plateau, shaded with magnificent trees, through the midsl ni which ran the little Maminee lliver, with us affluent the Cane River. Both streams u.iice just before they fall over the cliffy. At the point where the two conjoined, the children and the servants were left behind to prep ire luncheon ; whilst Mrs. Durham, Georgp, cuA Evelyn continued their ride to the old ilo'»erhouae, which was the goal of their expedition. At every step the scenery becivoie wilder and less civilised. Wattled r'-jro huts, bedaubed with mud, with children ausportmg themselves before them in all the sweet simplicity of nature, at least so h i as their attire was concerned; piovisioagrounds, where the yams and the plantains and the cocoas and the cassavas appeal el to be growing out of the barren rock; heic a palchof virgin forest ; there the gra^s grown track of a " thrown-up " road. Aud elevated though they were more than a thousand feet above the level of the sea, above them ioso the eternal hills, clad with verduro even to their summits, looking not one whit the nearer than they did, when, two hours before, they were standing at the fool of the gorge. But tb.3 heat was sickening. Thfy had not gone a mile bsfore George wad obliged to succumb. His head, he said, felt as n it would split ; he was so tired that he could scarcely sit his horse ; there was a haze before his eyes ; if he went on for five minutes longer he was certain he should have sunstroke, lie returned, therefore, with Evelyn to the place where he had left fcho olrddien. On a flat rock, covered with a sno'vy tablecloth, were spread all the requisites for an elaborate luncheon. The mules aud horses were browsing peacefully by the wafceiside. The servants, some distance farther off, wore smoking their cutty pipes underneath a clump of mango tiees. '•Now, George," siid Evelyn, when they had dismounted from their horses, " we shall sit down here and rest till mother returns. One of you," she said, turning to the sev vants, " run and fetch me a cool ptaintain leaf." And whoa it came, aha bound it round George's forehead with a handkerchief; and then, making him eat a morsel of tuikey, and drink rv glass of champagne, which she pouiod out for him herself, she bade him light his cigar and seat himself on the rock by her side. " You'll be better soon, dear George," she said. " The plaintain leaf will put youi headache away." The rest and the shade and the refreshment did him good. But he could not get rid of liis headache ; on the contrary, as the day went on, it seemed to increase. He felt languid and good for nothing. He complained of the hardness of his saddle, the jolting of his horse. Once or twice Mannie, who followed him on foot, holding on by his horso's tail, had to put out Ins hand to prevent him from falliug. In the carnage og the way horne — for Mrs. Duihatn had insisted upon his letting the children take his and Evelyn's place in the buggy — he was restless and fidgety. Long befoie they reached Prospect Gardens, Mrs. Durham and her daughter had communicated to each other, by glances, the suspicions which had simultaneously crossed the minds of both. " He's in for a touch of fever," said Mrs. Durham to Evelyn when they had reached their destination. " Send Mannie oif to Kingston for Dr. Samuelaon, Evelyn, at once. It's a groat comfort we have such a nurse as old Nana to attend on him." " I shall nurse him myself, mother," said Evelyn, resolutely. "Itis my duty. But if he gets very bad, I daresay I shall bs thankful for Nana's help." IX. There was much sympathy shown Mrs. Durham by all " the dwellers in the plains," when it was known that her nephew was " down with fever." The young baronet was popular with ail thai pleasant society ; moreover, he was hero of a little domestic romance. Above all, he wa3 a baronet, and titles have always had their value in the colonies. The Governor sent daily to inquire for him ; so also did the Chief Justice and tho Colonial Secretary, and, in fact, everybody who either had made, or hoped in future to make, his acquaintance. At first, there was every appearance of its being only a slight attack. 11 One never like 3 to prophesy unless one's sure," said Dr. Samuelson after he had paid two or three visits ; " but I fancy it's just his acclimatising touch of country fever. I hope it mayn't turn into anything worse ; I don't think it will. There's no yellow fever going about — to speak of. All the same, Idon't think it is wise of Miss Durham to be so much in her cousin's room. She sits by his bedside for hours. I think, Mrs. Durham, you should persuade her to let old Nana do a good deal for him that she insists upon doing herself. The atmosphere of a aick room is not the best for a young and delicate girl." But Evelyn would listen to no such counsels. "You need not be afraid of me, Doctor," she replied; " I'm not a fever subject. Ive been two years in Jamaica without having had a day's illness.— You remember, mother, the year before last, when yellow-fever was so bad all over tho plains, and even the negroes were taking it, I never had so much as a. headache. — I'm a true Creole, doctor ; I'm perfectly climate-proof. i Don't be afraid." ' " All the same, Miss Durham, don't rush recklessly into danger," he answered. "No indeed ; I sha'n't. But Sir George is a bad patient. I don't believe he would take the medicine you order him, if it were not for me. It needs all my coaxing and influence to get him to swallow all tho horrible things you give him. And he feela the heat so much, ho requires constant watching to preveat him from catching cold." "Ah well," said the doctor ; " since it must bo so, I shall say no more. "Dr. Samuelson 'says you are getting on nicely, George," she said, when she had returned to her post at her cousins bedside. "He does not think it is going to be a bad attack. There's no fever going about just now. * What do you think he told me ? The Kingston papers are publishing daily bulletins about yourillness! Whenever he gess back to his surgery he finds a reporter waiting to hear the latest intelligence. See what it is to be a favourite%d a baronet> George I" He put his hand" within hers. > ''No;' put your hand within the clothes immediately," she said, " or I'll go away and. leave you.. The doctor is trying to get your

skin to act, and there jou go doing your bjot to kcop yourself from Rotting well!" Us drew ia Lie? baud at once. "No ; don't go !" he takl. I'll do anything you want aie, only don't go and leave me. 0 Evelyn !" he continued, " I don't think I could cvor get; better without you. You don't know ho v I dread the nights when Nana takes your place, aid how I long for the daylight to sco you again I" " Don't bo foolish, Geoigo," ?he said. ' Of course I can't be with you ahvajs Bat ' — AnJ then aho blushed a ro*y blush. But dhe left her sentence uniioishad. "But it's quite tru^, Evelyn," said George, not noticing her confusion, " I really don't think I could get better if you were to go and leave me. And even with your nureincj, my dailing, I feel so ill sometimes, that I fear I may never recover. Evelyn, if I die " " Ohush I" she said. Don't talk nonsense, George. You're no more going to die than I am. We're both of us going to be married in Spring, and live a .hunched years at the very least. We're very near the end of the thiid volume now. You know all novels end with a mauiagc and " thpy lived happily ever afterwards." And y/hen we're married," she continued, still trying to amu 33 him, " 0 Geoige, think how delightful it will be when wero manied I We'll came out to Jamaica every year, woa't we dear ? and spend our Christmas at Pio3pect Gardena ! and mother will give us a ball " She stopped short suddenly. "Ah! that reminds me. I wonder if mother has sent out notices putting off the one we were to have had on Christmas Day? Let me see. This is the 19th. If she has not, there's no time to be lost. If you'll spare ma for a moment, George, I'll run and ask her." She left the room, but returned almost immediately, sayin? it was all right. Her mother had written the moment George's illae.ss had declared itself. " But it's only postponed," added Evelyn, gaily. " Now, do get better quickly, like a dear boy, and let us have our dance before we goto England." But a day or two afterwards George's fever took an unfavorable turn. " Massa Garge dead for tiuel" said old Nana, clasping her withered hands, when the first symptoms of the fatal black- vomit made their appearance. "It yellow Jack. 0 my poor Missy ! An' him such a beautiful buckra too ;" and, peizing Evelyn's hand, she covered it with tears and kisses. Di. Samuelson was hastily sent for, and arrived only to confirm the terrible news. " I m alraid it is yellow-fever," he said, shaking his head giavely. " Don't lose hope, dear Mrs. Durham. I've been cases as bad as this in which the patient has recoveied. Sir George has an excellent constitution. We aiudt hopo for the bast. In the meantime, v, c rnuot try to light against the unnatural drowsiness. Thyfc sleepiness is the first stage of coma, and if coma enoues " The doctor shrugged his shoulders. " I am going to sit up with him to-night, mother," said Evelyn, when the doctor had taken his depaiture. "Nana can lie down ou the pallet at the foot of his bed, if she liken. But Na.ua is getting old, and if anything " — her voice trembled — " if anything \va& to happen to him, I should nevei forgive myself I — No, mother !" she continued, seeing hsi mother was about to speak ; " there is no use trying to dnauado me. My mind is made up. it Geoigu die 3" She bur^t into a flood of tears. " Mia& Evelyn ! " said Nana, entering the apartment, "Massa Garge would like speak wid you. Him cry him head pain him so." " Tell him, Nana, I'm coming directly. Get a fi'esh ice bag ready, and take it into hid j:oom. You might take my dres=ing-gown , with you too, Nana 1 I'm going to help you to niicsc him to-night. It's nearly ten o'clock now, mother dear, so I'd better say yool-nigit. Tf he'j better to-morrow morning, !% she whispered in iier mother's ear as the kissed her, "it will be all right yet. It's the ninth day, you know. Good-night, deaiest mother ; and don't forget us both," she added softly, " in your prayers." x. Towards morning, the patient fell into a gentle slumber — a slumber which old Nina's experienced eye at once detected as being different from the drowsiness which had occasioned so much anxiety ; and when, shortly after daylight, Dr. Samuelson entered the sick-room, he saw at a glance that the crisis was past, " He owes his life, under God, to you, Miss Durham!" said the doctor, addressing Evelyn. There are influences in this world more subtle than medicine — influences both to kill and to cure. Yours is one of the latter. I believe your mere presence in the sickchamber has done him more good than all the resources of my art. But!" He stopped short suddenly. " Let me feel your pulse," he said to the girl, looking her in the face. "I think you had better go and lie down, Miss Evelyn. You've overtaxed your strength, I'm afraid. You can leave Sir George to Nana with perfect confidence now. The worst is over. • Go and lie down as quickly as possible. I'll bring you something to take, the moment I hear you are in bed." Evelyn stooped down and kissed her sleeping cousin, and turned towards the door. Then returning, she kissed him once more. But as she was leaving the room, she reeled, and put her hand to her head. Dr. Samuelson sprang forward just in time to save her from falling. " Take Miss Durham and put her to bed at once!" he said to the old nurse with an air of authority. " And ask Mrs. Durham to go down and sit beside her till I come." Just then George opened his eyes. •• Evelyn ! " he cried in a feeble voice. "Good-morning, Sir George! " said the doctor cheerfully, advancing to the beside. "How are you this morning? Better, I am sure ? " laying his finger on his pulse. George shook his head. " I think not, doctor. I feel as if I could hardly raise my head. — Where is Miss Durham ? Where is E /elyD ? " " A good sign," said Dr. Samuelson ; ''none better. You can't expect to feel particularly strong, after so sharp a touch of fever. But you'll do now, Sir George ; you're ?on the right road now." "Where is my cousin, doctor? She was with me all night." "Miss Evelyn? Ob, she's gone to lie down for a little ; she's a little tired with being up all night. J I've sent her to try to get a sleep. You must try to do without her to-day, Sir George. * A young lady's strength is not so great as that of jan old nigger's, and I think she's been overtaxing her powers these last few days." " Is she ill, doctor ? " said the'patient/tr^ing to raise himself in his bed. "Lie down; pray, be still, my dear J Sir George ! You'll never get better unles3 you try to keep calm. No, lib; not ill. Mfts Evelyn's not ill — only a little over-fatigued, you know. A good sleep will put her all right.— Oh, here's Nana I—Nana,1 — Nana, stay with Sir George till I return. I'm going up-stairs to write a prescription. Meantime, you can give our patient a little of that jelly. — You must try and take some nourishment now— not too much at first, you know." And nodding cheerfully to -his patient '[he left the room. The morning passed ; the noontide came apd went, but no Eve!yn came to cheer the sick man with her gracious presence. - 1 It struck George, as he lay there wearying" for her coming, that never since the commencement of his illness had he received so

hlllo aUeufciou. Nma .so^aiou c-uttbU 'Ij leaving the room ; and once when .she letuined, he nuclei he saw the mail 3 of recent tears on her worn and wrinkled coen tknamse. The doctors visits were fewet and shoiter than ever. A3 for hia aunt, she looked in only once during the day, staying only a few minute*. In answer to hia inquiries about her daughter, she said Ewlyn was siill in bed; and then, making : nme excuse, she hurriedly left the apartment. He passed a miserable day. Ha could not understand why his betrothed stayed rvva.y. He felt hurt — deeply hurt — at her treatment of him. And why, if he was getting bi-tttr, did every one shun his chamber ? Above all, why was he left alone so often and so long Not even from Dr. Samuelson, when he came to pay his evening visit, did he obtain the satisfaction or the information that he desired. The doctor was hurried, grav^, and taciturn. He told George he wasgoin.; on nicely. But when he asked for Evelyn, he evaded saying anything about her, by tc'laig him he had not seen her yet. Then, bidding George a hasty good-night, he left him v tone with Nana. The night passed somehow. Bu 1 ; to George it was a night both of uneasiness and mystery. It seemed to his fevered imagination as if something unusual was goinj on. There were noises for ever on the staii <, in the room above him, in the piazzas. T'lere were lights constantly passing and repas-ing across the courtyard. At times, he tho-iglu he caught the sounds of muffled sobs. Once — it was just about second cockcrow — he was certain he heard a woman's despairing scream. It wa.s late before he slept, and wheu he did sleep, it was a troubled uneasy slumber broken by dreams like the visions of a nightmare, a sleep which gavo him no refreshment, and brought with it no solace. Towards morning be awoke with a start. To his great surprise, he found that he was alo v ie in j the room — even old Nana had deserted him. He could not understand it. What did it all mean ? But he was too drowsy to be able to reason out the matter. He turned over to the other side, and in fivsjminutes after he was asleep again. When he next awoke, it was broad daylight. It was Christmas morning — Evelyn's birthday. The birds were singing in the trees ; the sunlight was pouring in through the jalousies of his chamber. All was q-uet, tranquil, and still. A Christmas feeling seemed to prevade all nature. In fancy, he almost heard the angelic voices singing, "Peace on eaith and good-will to men." As he lay there, levelling in the light and the joy and the sunshine, the door opened softly, and Mrs. Durham appeared. She was clad in a long white dressing-gown. Her face wa<) very pale, and ihere were deep blue circles lound her eyes, which spoke of a night of watching, perhaps of weeping. "Aunt!" said George, as she approached his bedside, " what brings you here at this hour of the inoining ?— How is Evelyn? "he j said, without pausing for a reply, for something in her face excited his gravest appiehonsions. "Botfcer, dear," bhe replied, in the calm, low voice which was habitual to her. " Bettev—much better, now." "Is she up yet ? It is her birthday 1 Shall I see her soon ? " " No ; you can't see her, George," she answered with cm almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. "But she sends you this, and her dearest love, and wishes you a happy Christmas and many of them." She bent down and kissed him on hig brow, and placed a little Piayer-book in hi 3 hand. He took it, half-awed, half-wondering at her manner, and as he opened it, there fell out a look of Evelyn's auburn hair. "It is Evelyn's Prayer-book, and this is her hair," said her nephew. " What does it all mean, aunt?" For only au^wer, the bereaved mother fell on her knees by his bed in an agony of tears. In the little churchyard of Hallway Tree, close to the gateway where the gentry congregate after service on Sundays, whilst waiting for their carriages, halt-hidden amongst the profuse growth of flowers and greenery which surrounds it, stands a pure white marble cross, which marks the giave of a young girl. Years have passed since that poor little life found its last resting-place in that quiet grave But anyone who is cuiious may yet read the inscription upon it. It it) this : Evelyn Durham: Wont to her rest on tho ISth anniveisiry of her bnthday. John w. 18th verse.