FATHER ZACHARIE'S LETTER.

IN a quiet street, a kind of no thoroughfare, in which the houses, as much alike as a dozen pins in a row, are best described by that detestable word "genteel," live the Leighs.

On this dazzlingly bright September morning, the little dining-room looks very pleasant and comfortable. Carved brackets, hanging-baskets, and a hundred nameless tokens of good taste and woman's care, are everywhere visible. The place is bright and cheery, which qualities the sunbeams enhance by peering through the sparse and russet grapevine leaves at the window, and, having gained courage, making gradual encroachments among the silver and delicate china of Martha Leigh's cherished heirloom-her grandmother's breakfast set.

Martha Leigh puts on her spec

tacles, and opens a letter she has just received. The postmark is foreign, and the paper thin and crackling. As she bends slightly forward, you notice that her refined and gentle face wears a careworn look that can only have been impressed there by years of patient sufferings. She is past forty, but she looks older. Her dress is precise and Quakerlike. Her gown, of her favorite stiff, gray material, falls in ungraceful folds around her, and her dark-brown hair, still untouched by time, is covered by a cap of black lace.

Opposite, lazily sipping his chocolate, and shading his face with a white hand, on which sparkle several rings, sits her brother, Archer. He is older than his sister, but he has taken more care to conceal the ravages of time, though he has not succeeded in covering the traces of early dissipation. His face is flabby and of an opaque whiteness, but well covered by a luxuriant and artistically dyed beard and mustache. His eyelids droop a little, and when he smiles -which he seldom does at homehis lips disclose a set of teeth too brilliant to be true. He puts down his cup, toys impatiently with the tassels of his gorgeous dressing-gown, and then says irritably,

"Well, Martha ?"

Martha has averted her face, and her glasses have become so damp that she cannot see the writing.

"He is dead," she answers in a low, tremulous voice.

"I am not in the habit of trying to solve conundrums," returns her brother. "Who is dead ?”

She does not answer. She does not hear. Her mind has gone into the past. She sees him-the deadin the pride of youthful manhood. She hears his voice mingling with hers in the old-fashioned duets to the music of her grandmother's tinkling piano. She goes back to a certain afternoon, when, beneath the mulberry tree in the prim old garden, she plucked apart the petals of a

"The spectacle of a woman of your age acting in this way is simply ridiculous," he says, with a sneer. "It is John Raymond who is dead. I thought if I were to die you would be less concerned no doubt."

"Archer !" she says in meek deprecation.

He applies himself to the letter, which is dated from Cadiz, and written in French by Père Zacharie, S. S. "Died on the 15th day of August, in the hope of a blessed immortality, having devoutly received the last consolations of the Church,' he mutters. "Umph! so John Raymond died a papist. What is this about a daughter? I have forgotten all my French."

"When alone with me a short time before his death, he solemnly implored me to place Inez in the care of you, Mademoiselle Leigh, whom he termed his earliest and best friend. I have obeyed him as far as I could. She will sail for your city in the next steamer, in care of her father's old housekeeper."

Archer Leigh's face flushed with anger.

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Do you mean to let that man's daughter come here?" he demands. His sister answers yes without raising her eyes.

"She shall not come, I say. John Raymond left his own country to avoid imprisonment, and now he sends this young beggar here to live on our charity. I'll not stand it! You know very well that our income is insufficient for my-our wants." "We must economize," Martha says, timidly.

"Haven't I economized until I can no longer associate with gentlemen? Look at the miserable claret

we had at dinner yesterday, and I can hardly raise enough money for gloves and the hire of a horse! When the season really opens I shall be ashamed to show myself anywhere! Economize, indeed!"

Martha was silent. Forbearance with her was a virtue daily practiced. She did not remind this specimen of masculine selfishness that for years he had been living on her slender income, and acting the rôle of a man of leisure and fashion wholly at her expense. Archer Leigh-handsome Archer Leigh then-had been spoiled by foolish parents. Martha, living with her grandmother, had escaped their influence. Before he was twenty-one he had made his début as an accomplished "society man," and before he was twenty-five he had rushed through the fortune bequeathed him by his father. After that he allowed himself to be supported by his sister, waiting to marry money. The spider watched; the flies were wary; and he still waited. His life had been a failure—a deeper, darker, more miserable failure than even his sister believed.

"Now, don't be absurd, Martha," he continues, in a calmly argumentative tone. "Show some respect for my opinion, on this occasion at least. Do something to prevent this girl's coming."

"I cannot. If I were base enough to refuse asylum to John Raymond's child, it is too late now. This letter has been delayed. has been delayed. Inez Raymond, Father Zacharie says, was to start in the Aspen. The Aspen is due tomorrow."

"I will not have this girl here— to be a burden on us, and to make things uncomfortable for me! Dick is bad enough!"

"Archer," answers Martha Leigh, slowly, and with a visible effort, for she has been accustomed to bow to her brother's will in all things. "Archer, you force me to do a hard thing, which is to remind you that this house is mine, and as long as I

live John Raymond's daughter shall never lack a home!"

Her thin hands tremble, and she nervously casts down her eyes; but he sees that she is resolute.

He mutters something under his breath, and then says, brutally, as he leaves the room

"I will make this house too hot to hold her!"

"On whose devoted head is my amiable uncle's vengeance to fall now?" demands a clear voice; and a young man enters the room. His eyes are blue, his face is ruddy, and his hair light and curling. His very step has a cheery sound. He takes Martha Leigh's face between his hands, and kisses her.

"Good morning, Aunt Mar!" "Behave yourself, Dick. Late as usual, and you didn't get home until after twelve last night. When will you learn to keep good hours?"

"How can you expect it, Aunt Martha? You refuse to let me have a night-key," he says, in an injured tone, "and it takes at least threequarters of an hour to climb the back fence and open the kitchen door. If I had a key that time would be saved, consequently I would be in bed three-quarters of an hour sooner. Logic is logic, that's all I say.'

"Oh, Dick, Dick!" Aunt Martha says, between a smile and a tear.

"Uncle Archer is getting more disagreeable every day. I wouldn't stay here another hour if it wasn't for you. By the way, who came in for his ill-humor this morning?"

"There's a young lady coming here," returns Martha, evasively. "A young lady from Spain, Inez Raymond. Her father was American, her mother Spanish. She has lived in Spain all her life."

"A young lady coming here! That is news. When is she coming?" "Probably to-morrow. You will take me down to the steamer to meet her. You can get off from the office ?"

"The people down there may manage to spare my valuable services for a few hours. Uncle doesn't like this senorita, and intends to make the house too hot to hold her!' That's it, is it? Well, I hope she may turn the table. Is she pretty, Auntie !"

"I don't know, yet she must be handsome if she resembles her father. Why?"

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Because," answers Dick, with preternatural gravity, "I don't want to fall in love; I'm in love already." "Oh, Dick, Dick! with whom?" cries his startled aunt.

"With you, of course, Aunt Mar!" And having finished a huge breakfast, Dick Leigh makes his exit, laughing.

"Poor, dear Dick," sighs his aunt, "I am afraid he is drifting into bad company. Oh, dear, I wish I knew how to keep him at home more—but Archer never gives the poor boy any peace.

And, full of doubts and perplexities as usual, Martha Leigh takes up her burden of household cares.

III.

"FROM TAWNY SPAIN."

INEZ RAYMOND has come, and a week has passed since her arrival in the quiet, shady street. Her companion, Margaret Daly, an old Irishwoman who lived for many years in the Raymond household, and who loves Inez as if she were her daughter, is trying, under Miss Martha's teaching, to learn American "ways." Inez, however, has not seen much of New World customs, for since her arrival, she has kept within her room. This is her father's country, and the sight of it brings him back to her. All day long, with the warm fervor of her nature, she weeps and prays for him. Thus far her uncle has contented himself with a cold bow to her whenever they happened to meet, which was only twice. Dick Leigh thinks that "she is a regular