What He Lost By It

I. The evening was warm and still, and all the doors and windows in George street were set open, and everybody who could escape from in-door occupation was out for a stroll. The people living here were decent, hard-working men and wonien, eaming enough to keep their families in comfort, and taking an honest pride in themselves and their dwellings. Most of the windows could boast of clean muslin curtains, and the doorsteps were as white as hard scouring could make them. There was one house, ho wever, whose step could ill bear a comparison with its neighbors; and, as to its curtains, they were drab and dingy, and had been up all the winter. " Miss Kennaway don't regard appearances, that's certain," said one matron to another, as they took their evening walk together. " If I were her I should be sick of the sight of those frightful drab curtains. And she with a smart young man coming often to the house !" " Poor thing !" sighed the other woman, a good-natured soul, always ready to find excuses for those the world was hard upon- " poor thing ! she cuu'l have a minute to cali her om. Wliat with her dressmaking and her mother's long illness, she must be pretty nearly at her wit's end." "Well, if young Parr don't mirid the curtains and that disgraceful door-step of hers, I'm sure I don't," responded the first speaker, sharply. "And here he comes, looking as natty as you please, and walking as if the very ground wasn't good enough for his feet." William Parr, the promised husband of Fanny Kennaway, was one of those men who are said to be above their station, and are sometimes so very much above it that there is no keeping them in it. William, however, was industrious enough to find favor with the merchant who employed him. Out of the counting-house he held his head high and looked down upon his fellow-clerks, who never ceased to wonder why such a lofty fellow should have courted an humble little dressmaker in George street. But very few men of taste would have been surprised at Parr's choice if they had seen Fanny Kennaway in her seat by th window that evening. After a long day's work she was reeting eyes and hands for a few minutes, and watching for William's coming. Hers was a delicate, clear-cut face, palé as a lily, and serious almost to sadness - a face that seemed to have little in common with the needies and pins and gay stuffs around her. And yet, in a general way, Fanny worked cheerfully enough at her trade. It was only when nursing as well as dressmaking feil to her lot, and a heavy doctor's bill was added to ordinary expenses, that her little body feit itself weary of this great world. But there was no great weariness in the smile that greeted William as he entered the humble room. Like a wise woman, as she was, Fanny always met her lover with a bright look and a cheery voice. " Come, Fanny," he said, " won't you go for a walk this evening? Your mother is better, so tnat you surely can be spared." " O yes, mother can spare me; Mrs. Marks is sitting witñ her. But there is a dress that must be flnished to-night, William." "I wonder why we never can enjoy ourselves as other people do," muttered Parr, crossly. "You are making a regular slave of yourself, Fanny." "Well, then, 111 go," she answered, after a little pause, " and I won't be flve minutes getting ready." She tripped off, and soon returned, looking so neat in her walking garb that only an ill-humoredman could have found a fault in her. But as they walked away together down the street there was a cloud on William's face; and presently he spoke out his grievance: "Why don't you get a stylish hat, Fanny, instead of wearing that everlasting bonnet? I can't think how it is; your things last so long, one never sees you in anything fresh and new. For my sake, you ought to be a little smarter in your dress." Fanny did not teil him that every sixpence she earned was spent on the common necessaries of life, and that all her savings had gone to pay that terrible doctor's bill; but she looked up lovingly into the handsome, gloomy face. William washerfirst loye; shecoaldnotwish him changed, even when his magnificem notions caused her some inconvenience. The ornament of a meek and quiet sjóril is not always duly valued; and many people might have blamed Fanny for her tameness. But she was one of those women who would rather hear harsh words than speak them. Instead of chiding, she patiently sei herself to bring her companion into a better frame of mind, and she succeedec so well that William almost forgot the old bonnet. And yet, when he had lef her at her own door, and was going Imcl to his lodgings, he began to think of i again. It was quite humiliating, he saic to himself, for a man in his position to have been seen in the company of such a bonnet as that, " How are you, Parr?" cried a louc voice. "Splendid evening, isn't it Oome home with me and havo supper will you ?" The speaker was a dashing young fellow, son of an auotioneer who was reputed to be mirking a fortune. I was the iirst invitatíon that William hat exer had from Torn Derry. "Thanks," he answered, promptly, " I shall be happy to come." And then the two set off together, and William was by no means ill-pleased to walk with a well-dressed acquaintance, who nodded familiarly to one or two men in a sphere above him. The Derrys lived in a pleasant villa, with coaeh-house, stables and greenhouse. Voioos and laughter were heard in the garden as the young men approached the gate; Wiliiam caught sight of light dresses fluttering about on tlie lawn, and remembered certain rumors of the beauty of the Derry girls. After George street and Fanny's little work-room, it was no wonder, perhaf s, that Gloueester Lodge seemed almost an earthly páTadise. Julia Derry, the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, was disposed to be very gracions to William. She woro plenty of jewelry and her costume -was made in the latcst style. After eupper she stayed and sang several fashionable songs, with William standing beside her to turn over the music leaves, It was yery pleasant, he thought, to s,ee a girl with rings on her white hands, and without the-tell-tale roughness on the left fore-finger. It -was the old, old story. After that evening spent at Gloucester Lodge William'a visits to George street grew rarer, arer; aud little Fanny drooped visibly. !t is not' po very hard for a woman to ear up under life's burdens while she las the strong prop of a man's love to ean upon. But if the prop breaks it is well for her if the burdens do not crush ïer altogether. Fanny, however, was not without a certain quiet fortitude. She feit that her prop was givinsf way and nerved herself to do without it. "Fanny," said Mrs. Kennaway, one evening, as the young dress-maker sat ewing in her windowseat, "you are ïiot ooking well, my child; I wish William vould come and take you out. He hasn't jeen here very often iately, has he ?" "No, mother, not very often." " I think you are working too hard," ontinued the poor woman, sighing. " I et well very slowly, Fanny, and the beefea and port wine cost a great de?.l. I've made up my mind, child, to write to my jrother at last." " But, mother, you'll be dreadfully disxessed if he doesn't answer. And you ïave often said that he would never forgive you for marrying my poor father." "I've been a widow for nearly five ears, Fanny. Surely Steven can bury ie old grievanoes in my husbancl's jrave !" " You know best, mother. But father lways spoke of him as a hard man." " Well, at any rate, I shall make an at,empt to sof ten him. Don't try to talk me out of it, Fanny. I believe it is the "glit tliing to do." Fanny hela lier peace, but she had lite hope that her uncle Fenwick would eply to his sister's letter.' ' She knew ïat he was a rich city merchant, several 'ears older than her mother, but she had ïever seen him, and had founded her pinion of his character solely on her !ather's dislike to him. The Tate Mr. Cennaway had been one of those men who have a natural turn for borrowing money, and are generally severe on the 'rieuds who refuse to lend. Perhaps tlrs. Kennaway had taken some pains to lide the father's faults from the child's yes, for Fanny had never discovered lem. " Now, Fanny," said honest Mrs. Iarks, bouncing into the little room, ' to-morrow's Saturday, and you are goiug to have a whole holiday. Everyliing's planned, so you may leave off haking -yo-ur head. Mary Baker has romised to come and sit with your nother. My man and I have arranged otake yoifight off to Durant farm, where my sister lives." Mr. Marks and her husband were the vennawfiys' next-door neighbors. They were a childless couple, and instead of wasting their affections on dogs and parots they kxfeed out for young people who needed love and sympathy. Fanny ïad no idea they knew all about her sorow. She did not realize hew easy it is or shrewd eyes to read the signs of a ickheart. "' Early the nert morning a hircd chaise attled out of George street, containing "anny and her two friends. Of course it ould not be quite a perfect holiday without William ; but the girl enjoyed i-eah air and rest, and was grateful for dndncsR. It was a long drive, and when hey reached the farm-hoüsê Mrs. Mairks leclared that Fanny had picked up wonderfully. A day or two in the ountry, she said, would put a little color nto thqse pale cheeks, and brighten the eyes thát were dull with watching and working. Ah, poor Fanny ! Durant farm staads upon the outkirts of a wood, which has always been a favorite haunt with picnic partios. The fates had decreod that the Derrys honld give a picnic that day; it was early in September, and townsfolk wanted to make the most of the waning summer. Miss Julia Derry wore an entirey new costume, bought for the occíiion, and a oharming rustic hat adorned with poppies and wheat ears. It was very agreeable to be admired, even by a mere merchant's clerk, and she lavishecl ïer sweetcst ;smiles on William Parr. arm the pair strolled away from the rest of the party. He talked nonsense and she laughfid and listened, and led him oh, withont a thouglit beyond the hour's amusement. She was wiser in this world's ways than foolisli William, whose vanity had been tickled until he really belioved thathehad made a conquest. Hu was bending down to his cómpanion, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, when a turn in the path suddenly trrought them face to face with Mrs. Marks and Fanny Kenaway. Even thea things might have turned out well, S William had only been true to himself . But there was Fanny in her shabby every-day gowu, and the bonnet had gone cpmpletely out of fashion ; and there wn the superb Julia hanging on Pnrr's arm, and quizzing his betrothed with haughty eyes. The worst part of the young man's ntiture carne uppcrmoiit at that moment. He gave one qui k glance at Fanny, and then swept on, without bestowing even a bow of recognition on the httle dressmaker. '" Well ! ",said Mrs. Marks, drawing a long breath, "I only wonder that the earth don't open and swallow him up ! " H. Fanny took her lover's desertion in a very quiot Wy. She kuew thflt the ene had oumfl, aucl did not try to get any comfort out of a dead hope. Whentlie flre has gone out she is a wise woman who sets herself to take away the ashes and clean out the grate, even when slíl knows her heartlistone will be cold for many a year afterward. Our little dressmaker went on sewing and snipping as nsual, saying nevera word about her trouble. Meanwhile the household burdens were Jightened. Mr. Fenwick wrote a kind reply to his sister's letter, and inclosed a sum large enough to supply her with all she required. " Yon can get yourself a new gown now, Fanny," said her raother, cheerfr.lly. "It has made my heart ache to see you wearing that oíd gr.iy thing. I liko my little girl to bo wcll dressed." Brave Fanny ! If a sick heart whispered that it didn't matter what she wore nowadays, she never heeded the voice ; she chose the material with as much care as if it had been the stuff for her wedding dress, and set about making it up in her best style. Wlicn it was finished Mrs. Marks carne in and resolutely cleared away the signs of work, and then sent Fanny up-stairs to put ou the new gown and go out walking in it. It was getting late in the afternoon when Fanny returued from her stroll. It seemed to her, as she entered the littlo parlor, that it was full of people ; her mother sat by the window, looking nervous and tearful, yet happy withnl ; and by her side was an elderly gentleman, talking earnestly. A little apart from these two was a young man, sitting at the tftble and tnrning over the pages of a little volume of poems whicli had been a gift from William Parr to his affianced wife. Both gentlemen rose quickly as Fanny came in, and the eider introduced himself at once. " I am y our uncle, Steven Fenwick, Fanny," he said, taking her hands. " Give me a kiss, my dear. You are like ihe daughter I have lost. This is my son, your cousin Walter." The young man came forward and asked if Fanny were willing to make 'riends with an unknown relative. His nanner was natural, his voice very genJe, and Fanny feit at once that he treat:d her with aa much deference as if she iad been a peeress instead of a poor litile dressmaker. What he thought of ïer she did not learn till long afterward ; but certain it is that the image )f a sweet, pale girl, in a brown dress, ïaunted Walter Fenwick's mind for many a day. " Your uncle wants us to go and live with him, Fanny," said Mrs. Kennaway, remulously. " He is a widower, and has only a housekeeper to take care of him. Shall we go ?" "Will yon come and be my child, ?anny?" asked BIr. Fenwick. She urned and looked steadfastly at him for a moment, with her eyes full of tears. And then, slowly and gratefully, she answered "Yes." Only a fortnight after Mr. Fenwick's visit, the inhabitants of George street an to their doors to catch a last glimpse of the Kennaways. The two women came very craietly out of the little house and entered tñe fly that waiteü lor tnein and their luggage. Mrs. Marks waved a tearful farewell; her husband stood on he pavement, smiling broadly to hide lis real feelings, and then the vehicle rattled away, and the f olks went in-doors again, saying that they supposed the rich uncle was going to make a lady of ittle Fanny. And how was it, meanwhile, with William Parr? His intimacy with those gay f riends, the Derrys, had come to an end with the summer. Julia got tired of his attentions, and snubbed him; her elders said to each other that young Parr's frequent visits were becoming quite a nuisance; even Torn at last gave ïim the cold shoulder. They were a ïeartless set, he said to himself, feeling abominably ill-used. And then it suddenly occurred to him that he was only etting the very same measure that he iad meted to another. " It serves me right for treating Fanny badly," he mused. "She was Worth a hundred Julias. And she is such a jood, forgiving little thing thatlalmost ihink she'd made it up with me if I went back to her again." It was a chilly evening in late autumn when William Parr once more took his way to George street. A host of old recollections carne crowding round him as ie drew near Fanny's home;-he began ;o wonder how he could have stayed away from her so long, and to be eager !or the ñrst glimpse of her sweet face. Se knew just how she would look ; his ancy painted the glow and brightness hat would welcome him. There was a ight in her parlor- a warm, cheery jeam, that told him he would find her sitting as usual at her sewing. "I won't make a dozen wretched excuses," thought the young man. 'Til ust ask her to forgive me, and teil her ;hat I could not live without her." He knocked at the door, and stood waitíng with a throbbing heart for Fanny to open it. A few seconds passed away, then he heard the inside latch lif ted, and stood face to face with a tall, ïard-featured woman in a widöw's cap. "Is Miss Kennaway within ?" he fal;ered. " She doesn't live here," responded ;he woman, shortly. " Not live here !" said William. " Then where is she ? Can you give me any information ?" ' ' I don't know anything about her. I've heard that some people named Kennaway lived here before I came, but that's all I can teil you.." William turned away from the door like one half stunned. It was all so different from the pleasant and pathetic scène he had been picturing that he could hardly believe in this stern reality. And then, as he still stood dreaming on the pavement, he bethought him of Mrs. Marks. She had been the Kennaways familiar friend, and would surely know something about their change of residence. Alas ! Mrs. Marks' house was quiet and dark. The shutters were closed ; not a gleam of light could be seen within, and William's knock remained unanswered. "That house is empty," said a girl's voice at his elbow, and, looking around, he saw a decently-clad lassie with a parcel under her arm. "The Marks are gone away to live somewhere in the country," she addod. " Can you teil me what has become of Mrs. Kennaway and her daughter ?" William asked, eagerly. ' ' They're góne to London. Some rich gentleman found out they were his near relations, and he has taken them to live with him." Without another word William walked away, hardly knowing what direction he was taking. Until that moment he had never realized how strong was the tie that had bound him to little Fanny. He had neglected her - trifled with himself and hiis best feelings - and well-nigh broken her heart ; but had he really never ceased to love her ? She was gone; she nad quietly vanitdied out of his way, and made no sigu. Three years passed away. William Parr bad stepped into the piace left vacant by the death oí a, senior clerk, his salary had been raised, and he had moved into better quarters. Perhaps, if hehad aought to renew his intimacy with the Derrys, he might not liave been repulsed, but he was now a Badder and wiser man. The sense of loss had never entirely left him, por had he as yet found anyone who oould be what Fanny had been. No tídings of her had ever come to her old lover; in the days of their intercourse she had been siient about her Unole Femvick, and William had not even heard his name. One day it happened that William Parr was dispatched to London to transact some business for his employer. Itwas winter, but the weather was clear and sunshiny, and when he arrived at the great metropolita station it wanted an to noon. Among the numberswaiting on the platf orm one figure attracted William's Bye at onoe ; it was that of a lady, riolily dressed in volvet and sable, who was evidently looking out eagerly for some one in the train. As she caught a glimpse of the faee sho was watching for, her own brightened aml flushed in a way that William well romombered. Just so had she greeted him wlien he had been wont to pay his evening visits ts the little house in George street a long time ago. A quiet-looking gentleman stepped out of a first-class carnage, and was about to draw her hand through his arm. But William, yieldingtoa powerf ui impulse, ■xpproa,clied and spoke. " Fanny -Miss Kennaway," he said, nervously. She gave a very sliglit start. For an nstant her color deepened; and thenshe frankly extended her hand. " Not Miss Kennaway now," she answered, smiling. " This is my husband, Mr. Fenwiek- Mr. Parr." William scarcely knew how he re;umed the gentleman's salutation. A noment more and Walter Fenwiek and lis wife had passed on, leaving William io collect his scattered senses. Both had seen plainly that he was f ar too confused to enter into conversation. " Poor fellow !" said Walter, looking down tenderly into his wif e's face. "I do not wonder that he was agitated by this sudden meeting with his lost love. He is a great loser and I am a great gainer, Fanny. -