his father had done before him; bat his opinion had power in the neighborhood, even among educated men; and he was one of those persons of whom it is said, ‘‘He is s whole-souled man, whose word is as good as his bond.”
Such men may become what the world call ‘well off,” but they seldom get rich, seldom care for more than an easy competency, which they enjoy with rest, because earned by labor. Such was Daniel Hart, as he eat in his oaken easy chair by the fire-side that night. His stout form filled it comfortably, without crowd- ing, and his great, hard hand rested on the arm as he leaned towards his brother-in-law. His air was earnest, and something of curiosity was expressed in his features, but everything was frank and open as the day. You knew at a glance that whatever he felt would be spoken out honestly.
On the other hand, Mr. Bentley sat in his chair—tall, well proportioned, without leaning to excess in any way; quiet and watchful. High-toned refinement, an excess of cultivation, and those resources that spring from it, were written in his features. He did not seem less truthful than the farmer, what you saw was sincere and honorable; but that there were not depths of feeling and hidden thoughts in that man's nature, impenetrable to his best friend, no one could doubt. His soul was like the waters of Niagara, just below the Falis—deep and turbulent underneath, but tranquil on the surface. You knew that storms were in those depths, but could neither see nor hear them.
But the farmer's nature was like the waters of Lake Superior, clear and transparent. There was not a thought of his being that did not shine through like the pebbles and sand of that pure lake.
“Tell me,” said the strong man, with a quiver of the voice, while be looked upon the waning fire as through a mist, the tears lay so close to his eyes; ‘tell me, brother-in-law, how it was that my sister died in those foreign parts; we never had the particulars—only read in the papers that she was gone. You wrote to us, I don’t doubt, but the letter never came, and to this day Hetty and I are uncertain how it all happened.”
- tAnd you have never heard?” said the other,
in a low voice, leaning back in his chair, and shrouding his eyes with one hand.
“Not a word since you left here, nearly fifteen years ago, except what reached us from a New York paper. There we found that poor Ssrah had died at sea, and that was all.”
And you made no further inquiries?”
‘How could 1? Who was there for us lo ask about her? I went down to New York to in- quire, for Hetty was almost distracted for 1 good while, and I was afraid she would pine herself to death—-but there was no one to tell me any- thing. It seemed as if Sarab and her child bad drifted out of our home and been lost in the fog, she went so far out of our reach before she died.”
‘*And you grieved over her loss?”
“Grieved over her loss! who could help it? Wasn’t she the salt of the earth, our Sarah? Wasn't she ike an angel of light on her father’s hearth, before you took her away?!”
Mr. Bentley pressed his hand close to his . eyes and groaned within himself.
“] don’t think much of good looks, and I ain’t sure that Sarah was what folks call a beautifel woman; but I tell you, sir, there was something about her face when she talked, and in her eyes when she smiled, that no women’s face ever had for me before or since. That look would bring me to her feet like a dog, no matter how much I was sot agin what she wanted. Mr. Bentley, when you took that gal from under my father’s roof, the light seemed to go out of the old house with her, and it never came back agin. Hetty, you know, was always nervous and afraid of her own shadow; but she kept up wonderfully while Sarah was with her; but when she went away the poor little thing wilted right down, and she never has seemed to cheer up since. You wouldn’t a known our Heity, I dare say; she’s sort of withered into nothing since that news came. If young Mike Croft did not come to see her now and then, she wouldn’t know there was a world outside of the house. She’s dreadful melancholy; the only time I ever heard her talk up pert was when he was here last sum- mer's a year."
- And who is Mike Croft?” inquired Bentley,
dropping his hand, while a gloom came to his eyes.
‘Well, I don’t rightly know, myself, but I believe he’s an orphan boy that our gals picked up in New York afore Sarah was married. I don’t right like the fellow, but Hetty won’t hear a word agin him from anybody. You can’t wake her up on anything but that. But this isn’t what I sot up to talk nbout. Tell me while we're alone, how my sister Sarah died.”
“Your sister Sarah is not dead,” answered Bentley, hastily, and without another word he left the room.
(TO BR CONTINUED.)
