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MARC A NOVEL IN THREE PARTS. BY SANDY DeTAVARKS. Entered according to Act of Congmaa, be the Hipn n Ptbeisbisg Coxtask, in the office of the Libra rian at Washington. CHAPTER IV (CONTINUED.) “ I am glad you do,” ho replied, with pro voking calmness; “and I intend to do the same. Now, listen to me: You with me to marry you ? Put yourself m my place, if you can, and see if it would not be madness tor a man to marry a woman who had once been his mistress. The woman that becomes my wife must be one who would neTer yield to me. Such a one was the wife I bad some years ago. She was inferior to you in all re spects but one. All I tried failed to make her yield. I married her, because her virtue was impregnable, and not because I loved her any | st promise to give bity of his ways am i but through my ag< ack to a life of honor she returned i; ously. “Either take the money and perform the required service without conditions or re ject it.” Her imperiousness somewhat awed Mp. j>mff, and quite dissipated his pious reflee.tja|}»]pl» perceived in a moment that her religions principles were small. In fact, he remem bered at the moment that she was a fallen woman—not degraded, bnt still fallen—and that in her state of mind the quality of mercy was not likely to possess any considerable in fluence. “Perhaps you Bre right,” he remarked,, as he took the mony and hastily thrust it in his pocket “It may be better to make no con ditions. The wavs of Providence are inscru- tible. Into His bands I leave this business, merely trusting that in serviog yon I am but His agent to work ont a righteous end." “Very well, then. You have my address.” And she turned to leave. “May God have mercy on yon, poor sin ner,” Mr. Sniff began. Bnt she waved her band as if to bid him better than I had others before or have others i ce ?“’ ttnd , th * F**! U P 8 wr / athed themselves since. She is desd now. People say she died l ln f? * 6mlle of d,fiance and contempt as she of a broken heart, becauso I neglected her bnt that is nonsense. She is the only woman I „ " Kee P * onr . blessings and your pity for I ever met whose purily was above suspicion ] ‘boss who need them. They are of no use to Good afternoon, sir. In another moment she was gone. Then * tn|nyr^ionl&*, ' 1 break as sh< ' if tbi out biuret of tv i id aSerfjfiu >K once more. I have thought well over this, Matilda " she said, “ Night after night I have bun npon my bed and thought if the day would come when I should have to send the chifd away. ; It 'was a hard' Btruggle I had, before my mind could become reconciled to the separation, for I felt then, even as I leel now, that when I have parted with It, the last link, save you, which binds me to humanity, will have been part ed forever. And, Matilda, I have also thought that if yon have grown tired of fol lowing me from place to place, I will either send you back to the South to end your daya in paace, or here, will act yon free and give you enough to support .” Before she could go any farther, Matilda had stopped her— “Leave you, Miss Belle ” she said, “I Hint gwiue to do any sich thing, l only go back Sooth if you go; I only have freedom if yon wont keep me.” " Then stay with me Matilda,” rejoined Belle. “An* the baby, the poor baby” said Ma tilda, reverting to the infant, now that all her fears about herself had been removed. “Must leavo us, Matilda, ” was the reply, given sadly, but with decision. Bello then told her what disposition she in tended to make of the child. It would not in my mind. I believe that most women have their price. Yon certainly had yours; and if you could haven price with me,yon can have it with some one else in the future. I cannot trust my honor in your hands. Yon betrayed yonr own honor, and I have not the slightest assu- ... , , _ ... , m pencil, “Iso. 40 Jsickerbocker Place, Go- care, until such time ns she could take it back ranee that you would preserve mine, there- 1 ’ . tr . ., , v _ r mr . * r. ■ . . . i ram. I to her home. Her visit to Sir. Van Dusen can’your absurd desire be ever gratified Do 'Y hcn he rcad the Eame - M. r - Sn . iff Ettered ; had “ erel y pve-cipitatea this previously deter- yon hear me fully T Mr. Sniff for the first time looked at the card i do to have the little thing carried from place she hnd placed in his hand. In printed giltj to place wherever she went. She therefore lett rs it bore the name of “Miss Arabella proposed to place it under tho charge of the Laurissini," and below was written with a I Sisters of Mercy, and to pay liberally for its | a faint cry ot surprise. Then he leaned mined purpose, and on the following day sho H This was a cruel, cold-blooded speech to make to her, and she felt the sting of his words. But Mr. Van Dasen cared but little for her feelings. Half seating himself on the handle of his chair, the gentleman coolly- puffed his cigar with as much calmness and indifference os if the wretched victim of his passion was not seated before him pleading for justice. “I have heard all that yon have said,’ she replied. “ There was a time when you spoke differently, but that time is gone. Have you done saying ail you wish?” “No,” he said; “there is something else I wish to refer to. You spoke about a child— your child and, I suppose, mine also.” “Suppose!" And her voice trembled from excitement “Yes, suppose,” he rejoined. “Csn I swear that it is mine?” Hitherto she had been composed and mod crate nnder the most shameful taunts; but now her inmost ssul could stand his words no longer. “Suppose!” she repeated, rising and ad vancing towards him. “Wretch! hound! take that back 1 Do you not know that the child is yours ? Is it not enough that I must biar the sin and shame of its birth, without having its very parentage doubted ? During all the months that we lived together, what other man did you ever see me with, even for a minute, except in yonr presence?" Selfish and callous as he was, Mr. Van Da sen felt that he had gone too far, and bad spoken words that should never have been uttered. “There is no need of flaring up,” ha said; “I admit I have been hasty. You are right. The child is mine.” Her anger had apparently gone as quickly as it was aroused, and she resumed her seat without giving him a reply. “And believing that it is mine,” continued Mr. Van Dasen, “I am willing to pay you any reasonable sum that yon may namo for its support.” Here he paused to relight his cigar. “Are you done, " she asked. “Yes, quite done,” he answered. “Thenhear me now." She rose and walked up to him with a firm step. Her lips quivered somewhat, and the hand that she placed npon his trembled a little; bnt the eyes were bright, and shone with a determination which was incapable ef being misunderstood. “Hear me now,” she repeated. “All that yon have said does not move me one inch from my purpose. Until yon die, or until I die, I shall pursue you and demand to be made your wife. I am not altogether withont friends, and if by this day six months hence a marriage ceremony is not performed between us, my brother shall know who the betrayer of his sister is. Yea smile. Well, it is trae that he has forbidden me to speak to him or to cross his threshold, but he holds the honor of his family dear, and stands ready to avenge its betrayal the moment he learus who the betrayer is. For the sake of yonr child, I have hitherto said nothing. Six months hence yon must decide what my course shall be. As for your offer to support the child, I spit at it.” Mr. Van Dusen laughed heartily when she had concluded. “Your threats amuse me. Belle; I am quite used to them,” he said. “This last one affects mo no more than the many others you have uttered. As for yonr determination to follow me wherever I go, there is an easy remedy for that. If you enter my presence again for any such purpose r.s brought you here this day, by Heaven I will have you put in a lunatic asylum. I have borne with you long enough, and will snbmit to this no lon ger. It has become intolerable.” As he ceased speaking, Mr. Van Dusen rang the bell, and Mr. Sniff reappeared at the door-sith remarkable promptness. “Sniff, show this lady out," said Mr. Van Dusen. “Should she call again, you will oblige me by informing ms of the fact before admitting her.” Mr. Sniff bowed in reply. The woman said nothing more, but quietly left the room, followed by Mr. Sniff, and as the two reached the door leading to the stairs, he said: “I accidently overheard all that transpired, and I feel for you. I am, I hope, a moral man, and if I can serve yon, let me know it." She threw back her veil and gazed at him keenly for an instant, and a shade of oon- tempt passed across her conntenance. “Yon were eavesdropping then,” she said, and perceiving that he was about to deny the charge, the continued, “There it no need for you to deny it You offer to serve me. I accept the offer and will pay for yonr services liberally. Give me yonr name and private address." Mr. Sniff handed her his card. “Now, what I want yon to do,” she said, “is to keep me informed of every movement of that man.” “Can I do this without wronging my own conscience,” he asked piously. “Under stand me, madam, from what I have heard this day I recognize in you a wronged wo man. I, as a man of family, as the father of daughters—small, it is true, bnt still daugh ters —can sympathize with yon, from the bot tom of my heart" Bere Mr. Sniff placed his band upon his left breast “If," he continued, “I can do as you wish without derogating northing from a strictly moral standpoint—if, in a word, I can, con- ccnsistenlly with my position as a member of the church of the Puritans, comply w ith your reques*. you may rely upon my serving yon to the best of my ability.” “Yon but decide yourself whether yon can serve me without disturbing your con science, ” the replied contemptuously, can only any that If yon keep me informed of every movement of Mr. Van Doecn, I will pay you one hundred dollars every month, so long at you ere in my employ." Taking a pocket book from her pocket she opened it and drew forth several bills, from which the (elected one for one hundred dol lars and banded it to him. “Yon are right,” he laid solemnly. “It it the cense of the wronged I serve, but before I take yonr money, you must promise sot to would carry it into effect. “ It will be hard for us, Matilda,” she said in conclusion. “ But we most bear it as best we can. Perhaps you cannot understand why I am about to send it away from me. It must not grow up ashamed of its mother, and ashamed of me it will be, if I attempt to bring it up myself. No. It is better for the child that it shall not know me antil, if it lives, it can learn to forgiTe me for the shame of its birth.” At that instant the cry of the infant came from an adjoining room, and Matilda hurried from the parlor to take it. Presently she re turned with u little cherub in her arms, laughing with baby glee, and pulling her head kerchief. •‘Ma-ma,” and the little thiog held her arms outstretched aud was taken by the mother, while Matilda left the parlor to order up dinner. Seated on her mother’s lap, the infant played and laughed, heedless of the early parting they were soon to have. But, Belle, was once more brooding on her wrongs, and the sweet cooing of the babe awoke no repent- ent feeling in her heart for the conrseshe had resolved upon. Matilda announced dinner aud, os usual, the infant was placed on a high chair before the table aside of Bello. It was some two years old, and could barely lisp a few words. But it was full of grace and beauty, as if all the charms of its mother and the manly beau- jnss iBistUA LACarssiNi disposes of ekb ! ty of its father (for he was a handsome man; had united in giving the world a very angel against the side of the door and appeared to wonder if he had not heard of a person with that name before. It seemed to puzzle him to remember where he had heard of it Sev eral times he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and placed them on again. “Let me think,” he soliloquized, “where have I heard of that name;" and after several minutes of reflection he suddenly clapped his hands together, "Goodness me 1” he contin ued, “can she be anything to the fire-e*ting member of Congress from Louisiana? Bless me 1 Dear me ! What a fall if it is. Why, they do say that the slaveholder is a regular aristocrat. This all comes of keeping human flesh and blood in bondage. It is a just pun ishment for centuries of crimos. Can she be anything to Mr. Gustave Lanrissini ?" Before he could decide whether she was or not, Mr. Van Dnsen's bell rung, and he has tened to reply to it Mr. Sniff had guessed correctly. The lady in question was the sister of the Hon, Gus tave Laurissini, well known throughout the Republic as the owner of three hundred slaves, a member of Congress, aud a Fire-Eater of the mo6t decided type. CHAPTER V. On leaving Mr. Sniff, Miss Arabella Lauris- sini entered a cab, and ordering the driver to take her to No. 40 Nickerbooker Placo, leaned back against the cushions and thoaght over the events of the past few hours. She was a woman of about medium stature, with a face that must have been once inexpressibly beautiful, and was even now, in spite of its thinness and palor, quite interesting. The lips, as I hare .before .stated, were small and exquisitely shaped, and the eyes, block and expressive, shone with a brilliancy that not even mental anguish could dim. The hair, too, was of a glossy black, and was braided in the style ot the period, before chignons had been introduced. But the woman was thin and wasted. The complexion, which mnet once have been lovely, was pale and bloodless, end on the little hands every vein bulged oat a blue line. When the carriage stopped, she alighted, paid the cabman, and walking slowly m> the steps of the house, rang the bell. The door was opened by a slender, middle-aged colored woman, with a complexion of the color of gingerbread and a face full of kindness and good nature. She was attired in a dress of striped homespun, manufactured in the Southern States, aronnd the neck ef which was tied a white handkerchief. Her head was bound ap in a madras kerchief, from beneath the folds of which a few kinky hairs strag gled, looking as if they had not their way, and were puzzled how to return to the natural bone. “I’m glad yon're baek, chile," she said; “I’ve been waitin’ anxious for you. There now, dear heart,” she added, as her mistress threw herself upon the sofa of the parlor and bnried her face in the cushion. The slave -for such she was—knelt by the side of her mistress and gsutly patted her on the shoulder. “Tell me,” she said; “ain't you been an' seed him ? ” ■ Yes,” said her mistress, from the folds of the cushion. “What did he say?" continued the slave. Is he gwine to ac’ tho man with you ? Is he gwine to make it all right ? ” “jiiatilda, he drove me away from him. He insulted me; told me that he would never marry a woman that had done as I had.” And she rose from the sofa aud began pacing the floor to and fro. Done what ? ” observed Matilda sharply, still retaining her kneeling position, “Done what? Aiut yon been as good an’ true to him just aa if you had done been married to him? ” He taunted me with having been to him what I was," continued Belle, speaking as much to herself as to tho slave, “ Great God ! how bis words did sting me ! And then at last, after refusing to make me the only repar ation in his power, he actually turned me oat of his office and forbid his clerk to admit me again. I cannot bear this any longer. I have waited, and prayed, and hoped for all this sorrow and shame to end, but without avaiL” Boor gal, poor chile ’’ remarked Matilda, compassionately. “ We mutt make a change Met.” said Belle after a few minutes of silence, “ We mast do something now. I have told him I shall fol low him to the last, and I shall keep my word. To do this, something must be done with the child." The woman started to her feet and looked wlfh surprise at he mistress. “Do what with it, Miss Belle," she asked hnskily. “Place it somewhere—nnder some one’s care. I cannot keep it with me any more,” replied Belle. “ Yoa aint a gwine to sen’ the baby away, Mies Belle," said Matilda, her lips quivering with fesr. " I love it as I love you. Oh, do Miss Belle lets go BOtnewhere an' live quiet like. Leave this villin alone. Let's go back down South and take it with ns. Do for God’s sake doot sen’ it away.” She sank on her knees before her mistress with uplifted band, and looked up into the pale face beseeching. And the down-trodden slave, regardless of her fetters, and feeling only the mighty love that dwelt within tho great heart, concealed ftom human view by her dusky skin, burst into tears. And the proud end haughty slaveholder, heedless of the different stations into whioh God, in Hi* wisdom, bad plaoed the two, bnt seeing in this slave only the faithful being that followed her footsteps in childhood and her wanderings in womanhood—this owner of human flesh and blood, rented in a society which philanthropists have denounced and Fiona Frauds have fulminated against, placed her arms arooDd tbs bondwoman's neck, laised her . from the floor and them, for the of loveliness. The evening passed away dull and spirit less. Matilda placed tho child in bed at an early hour, then laid herself beside it, and wept nntii|she, too fell asleep to dream that she was again on the plantation, with Belle, once more a child, playing upon the lain in front of the mansion, happy and innocent •She slept aod her sleep was calm and placid, but Belle sat by the window during the entire night, and when morning came and the sun Bent its little rays slanting across the room, Matilda found her still there, sleepless and silent. . “I have not been to bed,” she quietly re marked in answer to the look that Matilda gave, “ I have not felt sleepy.” “ This wont do ” said Matilda, “ you must ac' differently. Come now, you mis' take some coffee. There’s no use lrettin’ over the child. You are right. It mm’ go, an’ God's blessin’ go with it. But you mus’ cheer up, I aint gwine to let you kill yourself with settin' up all night. It wont do." GrieviDg herself, as never before did mortal grieve more frequently, the good natured hy pocrite spoke as if she had quite made up her mind to part with the infant. She bustled about the room actively, then disappeared and presently returned with a waiter on which a breakfast of coffee, toast and soft boiled egge were placed. It was Friday, and Belle was a Catholic, as also was Matilda. Perhaps it was from force of habit, for she hod been neither to charch nor to confession for nearly three years, bat she still adhered to the mandates of her religion, which forbade tho nse of meats on that day. Placing the waiter on n small table which she had drawn before Belle, Matilda persua ded her mistress into drinking the coffee and eating a few mouthfuls of the food. This she did more to please the servant than from any inclination she felt for the meal. When it was over and Matilda had taken away the waiter and replaced the table in its proper place she referred, for tho first time that morning, to the subject that bad nover been absent tor r.n instant, frem the thought of both since it was announced on the previous day. Is everything ready,” Bhe asked in a low tone. “ Have you packed her clothes,” Ma tilda turned her back to Belle, as she an swered. Yes, everything is ready.” And the wordi came broken from her lips. Have you ordered a cab ? ” Yes.” And baby—she—is she asleep." For a moment only the brow contracted as if with pain, then Bell's face resumed its usual ex pression. Matilda walked up to her Bide. “ It’s awake an’ ready ” she said. “An’ I’m gwine to ask for the last time. Is you sure this is right ? Is you certain that it’s better not to have the child with yon. Think again for the last time an’ think good.” “ I thought last night for the last time, and my mind is qnite made np. Yes. It is best she shall be parted from me.” “Then I've nothin’more to say," replied Matilda, “ Alwayajto come we'll stick together, an' if every little while you'll let me go an’ see the child, an' come back again an' let yoa know bow it is, that's all I ask.’ “You shall be gratified." “When do you wish to take it?” Matilda asked. “ In a few minutes,” replied Belle. “Get my bonnet and sacque—the black eilk one, and look in the poeket of the dress I wore yesterday and take out my pocket book. '* After the bODnet and sacque were put on, Matilda left the room, and on her return an nounced that the carriage had arrived. Belle weat out, and at the door, saw tbs babe in the arms of another servant. “ Givo the baby to me," she said. A small trunk, together with a ftew other things, were placed in the carriage, after which Belle entered with the infant, and was soon followed by Matilda. The door was then closed and the vehicle drove off, watched by the other servants, standing on the steps until it was lost to sight. “ Did too tell the servants that we inland to break up housekeeping in a few days,” Belle asked, after a few moments of silence. “ Yes.” The cab goon tamed out from Nickerbocker Place and entered Repeater street, but before it had gone many blocks, its .progress was ar rested by a crowd of persons standing on the sidewalk, surrounding a woman who was weeping bitterly. Bhe wee a meanly dressed, attenuated creature, evidently of the lowest eiasa of society, with large red has da which •be wrung convulsively. “What's the nutter” tnqniie! a police lain who had just stepped up, Ob; Bir,” she child and I am afi river and tumbled too; only two yei will I do ? And tions. Belle’B face flushed as sho heard the poor creature explain the cause of her grief. Here was a woman, who, from all appearances, was compelled to labor hard for the support of her children and of herself, bawaihng the losn of her ill tie one. And here wturshe, possessed of ample means, about to abandon her child. Drive on ” at first, and then added quick ly, “No, stop, here Matilda, take this enild,” and opening the door of the cab she alighted in the street The crowd, perceiving from her dress that she was a lady, gave way and formed a passage for her to the bereaved mother, who wee still wringing her hands in nn agoDy of grief. “I am sorry for you," said Belle. “If I can aid you in finding the child I am willieg to do so.” Then turning to tho crowd she beckoned the policeman, and continued as she handed him her card, “ tell these men that I will pay fifty dollars to whoever finds the child, if they will call at my residence.” “It shall bo done mum, “replied the polioeman. “ May God in HeaTen bless yon, moam, exclaimed the mother, catching Bello by the hand. Then as she looked in the carriage and saw the babe, she went on, “Ah, you are a mother, yourself, and you know my feel ings. You can feel for ine. Oh, my child ! What's become of it!" At this moment a noise was hoard from the outside of the crowd, which had, by this time, increased in size, quite encircling the mother] Belle and the carriage. “Here she is; here she is!” said a dozen voices. Pressing through the mass of human be ings was a man with a little girl in his arms. As soon as the mother saw it she rushed for ward, vrith a cry of joy, and took it from him. She hugged and kissed the child, then laugh ed hysterically; then hugged and kissed it again, while the crowd gave a cheer of sym pathy for her. It was quite an affectieg sight and began to unnerve Belle. “Call the man who found it,” Bhe said hut riedly to the policemen. The man approached with his hat in his hand, looking as sheepish as ever mortal did that had just porformod a meritorious action, and had received the applause of bis fellow mortals. For the crowd had cheered him and the mother in the excess of her happiness had also given him a bag of thankfulness. Belle placed fifty dollars in his hand. “This is your reward my man " she said, aud then turned and entered the carriage. The crowd would have insisted npon taking ont the horses and pulling the vehicle for a few blocks, but Bell protested against any such proceeding, and the policeman, who received a handsome gratuity, interfered and prevented it. The last thing Belle saw was the woman still clasping her fond child frantically to her bosom. Tbe last sound she heard was the hurrahs of the crowd for the kindness of the lady that had paid so liberally for its recovery, while herself on the way to part from the little one that now sat upon her knees smiling and crowing, and ignorant of the approach ing separation. Once more they drove on, and when the carriage stopped before a large bnildieg half concealed from view, by high walls aud the thick foliage of trees, Belle and Matilda alighted with the baby, with an order to the driver to wait until their return. Belle rap ped on tho brass knocker attached to the gate, which soon opened and they entered the con vent. Following the Sister down the bricked passage, they were conducted to tho main building and shown ieto a small parlor, neatly famished with a large crucifix standing over the mantel, and several religious paintings suspended on the walls. From the half opened window leading te the gardes, the sound of laughter came, and on looking out Belle saw some thirty or more little girls, of ages ranging from four to fourteen, attended by several of the bisters, playing amidst the flowers. “See Matilda” Ishe said, “how happy they seem." Before Matilda conld reply, the Sister Su perior entered the parlor. She was a toll, austere looking woman, bnt with n not unpre possessing face. She was dressed in the attire of her ordor, except that her head was covered by a light cap, instead of by the usual hood. “You are the lady, I suppose,” she re- marked, “that addressed me a Utter some days ago in reference to a child yon desired taken caro of.” “Yes” Belle replied. “But before I leave it with you, let me explain fully what I desire. The child is mine, bnt there are reasons I cannot now explain, which render necessary that I shell part with it for some years, perhaps forever. I desire it reared as a lady’s child should be; no trouble nor ex pense must be spared in its education. At such time as you may think it is too old to be retained here as a pupil, you can let me know.” “ About the child's religion, madame” said the Bister Superior, "unless the parents desire it otherwise, all of our charges are educated in tho Catholic faith." “By all moans rear it up a Catholic. I am, or was one,” replied Belle, hesitatingly. “There is another question I would liko to ask, ” observed the Sister, “ from the tenor of your words it would seem probable that you do not intend to remain in Goram. I suppose therefore that you will have soma agent here. Still events may happen lot which you have made no calculation. Should anythin g occur to you or to the child —” “ I have thought of all that” said Belle, “,I will send you the address of my agent before I leave town, and he will promptly famish you with such information as may be necessary. I do not wish you, however, to hold any communication with him unless it is absolutely necessary. The Bister Superior bowed and looked keenly at the speaker, “This woman," continued Belle, pointing to Matilda, “ will call here occasionally to see the child, if there is no objection to her do ing so.” “None, whatever, naadame.” “ Well, then, all that remains is for yon to name such sum as will be required by tbe rules of the Convent” Belle said, “or, per haps," the added “you weuld prefer me to name each a sum as I csn afford to pay.” “ That will be preferable " answered tbe Bister. *' Will five hundred dollars be enough per annum ? " Belle asked. “Too much madame,(loo much for a child of that age." “ Let it be five hundred dollars then ” said Belle, “here is the money for three years in advance,” and the drew three five hundred dollar bills lrom her poeket book. Tbe Sister Superior looked at her in amaze ment, and gently put back the hand that con tained the money, at the asms time assuring her that the snm offered was so unusually large, the hesitated accepting it How did Bke know whether tbe lady was not parting with her last dollar. No, the Bisters of Mercy were always happy to take care of children whether their parents could pay for their edu cation or not, end Mrs. Lauronisaiui oould rest assured that the infant would be aa well treated without the money as with it. “ Take the money, Sister ” said Belle, force- ing it npon her. Asd Bhe laughed with a hollowness that startled the rriigieust as she added " My God, if money conld make me happy, how little would t hurt to complain of! Take the money, Bister." The Sister Superior took the notes and sit ting before a small dssk which stood in one corner of tbe room, wrote out a receipt for tbe nun paid, which she gave to Belle, who re- eeived and placed It in her poeket book. “ Do yon propose leaving the child with as to-day?” asked the Bister. “ Yen, take it now,” and Bella held out tbe infant to the Sister. er the outstretch- dly face which no” it lisped, its head in the nd was placed and presently a rosy face with laughing eyes looked np into the features that quivered their every muscle, though they remained grave aud showed no outward return of the baby love. O mother, feast your heart with that look of affection and innocent confidence, for nev ermore in infancy, never in youth and never in age, will that babe place its head upon yonr breast or smile up inte your face. O mother, you who bore in your bosom and brought forth the “sinless child of sin,” fair and beautiful as sin itself, pure and stainless as Heaven, turn yonr head and hide tbe double shame from the gaze of your cherub—the shame ef its birth, the shame of its desertion, Seekjiot to peer through the cloud of years, for behind the curtain of time there is no promise for you. In the depths of the fath omless Futuro grim spectres stand between yon and affection. The tendril of the vine liful flowers will garland the dead, but on tbe rocks washed by tho pitliless waves no Tine will ever cling, no flowers will ever bloom , on both side?, rnsd until next week, arfoJ Mr. Mitchell stated 3 first communicated with klin about twenty years ago, ,jy dona so since. 'Mr Hyde had communicated with Franklin through him, as he did not commnnicate in any other way. He had been encouraged by Franklin’s spirit all the way through. Franklin had told him the depth t« go, and they Aad gone to the exact depth.- f * The Log Eolling. SCENES FRO* EtANTATtON LZP£ fcj CtQQplX Reohtater Union G< orgiA Letter. W* lately felled sene twenty •erwofiMtw, second-growth pine timber, end the logs be ing too heavy for the help on the place to handle, we made a log rolling. The freedmen of the neighborhood were invited to help, end promised plenty to eat and diink, and a dance m after the work was finished ; three considers- will cling around the withered tree, and bean- oshard for them to withstand as Credit Henceforth and forever you are as the barren j Paging ; rock to that child, for though it may pity it i can never love, though it may not corse it can I never bless, though it may forgire it can nevor ! forget Feast then, O mother, your heart upon that look, press the tiny hand yet closer 1 to your cheek, and let this remembrance of j your parting be the one pure spot within you until the moment comes when all of prayer 1 for pnnty and love must be addressed to Him I who died upon the Cross. With just the merest bit of a shudder J Belle placed tho infant on the cat pet and Mobilier is for those who are not negroes, but are less happy. By sunrise the hands ore marching toward ‘•God Ha made tlie trees to grow, Masaa cut ’em down; Kiggara day <le cotton hoc, An’ plow do mclier ground, An’ plow, an’ plow. An’ plow de mtLer ground.” God brpfls de master's God Ureas de ueater’a ground, De ground, de ground, God bress de master'* ground.” The field being reached, they divide them- beckoned to Matilda, who brought her a j squads of six, and with a vrili corn- small basket, from which she took several 1 1 toys. These she gave to the little one, who shook its arms aud langhed as the rattles sounded. Just one kiss Belle gave it aud then rose to leave. Matilda, more demon strative, but with aa effort forcing back her tears, sat by its side, and several times pressed her lips to ita face, each time seeming to be come more loath to part from the little being th.ut she had nursed and cherished from th^ day of its birth. Meanwhile the Sister Su perior had stood near the center of the room, her arms folded before her, watching the scene. The usually austere features of the gentle woman had changed to a face full of surprise and sympathy, but she remained si lent and made no movement &e if to speak. Belle went np to her— “My letter has given the name of the child ” she said, “ in a few days I will forward you the address of my agent. Come Matilda.” With these words concluded, speaking she turned to the door, and once more, and for the last time, she heard the silver voice o^the in- mence piling the logs into great heaps; each squad singing some one of the many work songs they learned in slavery times; anu with out tbe singing of which their labor would seem hard aud onerous. It is impossible for us to describe these songs. They are often witty and sometimes vulgar, but there is something in the music of them that pene trates the soul like the sad tones of an Molina harp, a certain weirdness of sound—minors born of the winds; and to the imaginative, telling the sorrows of a century of servitude : to them but the natural expression of feelings tinged with happiness and contentment. Here and there over the field steed mum- moth trees, mooarchs of the forest, an 1 when the logs from these are reached by any of the squads, they call for help in the ioilowing manner: “Come, oh come, an’ help we niggers. Here am one we cannot tote; MasKa, you must pass tie licker, An* for our dinner £ib us shost-” Tho two 6quads nearest come to their as- faut call “ Ma-ma;” but she never saw the i tk® great log is raised with a shout, baby eyes filled with tears gaze upon her i an< ^ ftvra y they march with it, singing then, nor the little arms stretched out to her, | for Belle walked out of the room, holding her hand to her heart. “Home, as quickly a9 possible,” she said to tbe driver, as Matilda followed her hur- j # At noon the horn blows; telling that dirmc-r riedly in the cab. 1 i* ready and waiting to be eaten. They eat it When they reached the house Belle went | * 8 if they enjoyed it, and then there is an ho nr into her room and sat down by the window, : °f boisterous sport. First, a foot-race, In “Mibb*, die am mighty long, Maasa. tbis am wighij big; P»*b the licker, make um strong. Au’ don’t forget de roaated pig." even as she had done the night before, and remained in thought until tbe sun had faded away in the West and the dim, uncertain gray filled the street and room. Then she kneeled down by tbe chair. which the younger ones indulge, the winner being a half demented hunchbach. He reaches the goal, and with a horrid kind of grin ex claims, “1 beat,” and with a chuckle of satis faction rolls himself into a ball and then rolls God* help me, God hear me ” she said, ex- j of sight Then they tell how he outran tending her arms upwards and looking throagb i the Major's fox hounds in an all day chase, the window into the dark blue sky. “ I have • an( * caught aud killed the fox with his “ own torn from my heart all that was worth having | hands.” There is a wrestling match, a rough there, leaving no hing but hate therein. Now, j an< l tumble squabble, jumping and tumbling, you, Oh Christ, hear me, a woman, bind my- J aud some very sharp marble playing by the self to follow that man till death, to follow | older ones. Again the horn blows, and with all that he holds dear till death; to work out j a song they start for the field. hid misery, to make wretched all cf his, and I Before^ sunset the logs have been relied, never to end my task until all the shame and i “ Massa” being compelled to take a free ride sorrow he has cost me is obliterated and for- °u the last one out of the field to the fcllow- gotten!” ing song: In the next room Matilda was also on her knees by a cradle. And in her hands she held a tiny lock of hair, while before her there was a suit of infants clothing. She wept and appealed to God, not to aid her in revenging wronged, but to have pity upon the mother and the babe, and make their lives united and happy. And so the mistress and the slave alike spoke to the Snpreme. Why shall we, with human passions and failing, condemn the thirst for vengeance ? Is there in this wide world a fiercer or more terrible thiDg than a woman’s hate ? |TO BE CONTINUED IN NEXT SUNDAY S PATEE. ] A Spiritualistic Spring. THE BEALTH-GIVINa WATERS DISCOVERED BY ! THE 6PI RIT OF BEN FRANKLIN—A SUIT OVER THE DIVISION OF THE Matsa, you muit nebber ecold. But gib de rollers more corn whisky. I ho, corn whisky, ho— 1 ho, com whisky, ho.” The more corn whisky being compromised by a good and substantial supper, and the colored women and girls of the neighborhood having arrived, they adjourn to the largest cabin on the place, where they rattle their heels to the music of the “quills”—reeds— until the gray blush of morning mantles the Orient and bids them to their homes return. PROFITS From the Albany Journal, April 25. Among the curious cases on record must j be classed that of Hyde agt. Comstock, which came up on a reference before H. S. McCall, Esq., referee, yesterday afternoon. ; The action in itself is a trilling affair, having I simply been brought to compel a division of 1 profits between three partners in what is known as the Franklin Spring, at Ballston; j bnt there are oarcomstances connected with ; it, as shown by the evidence, which tends to i make it of singular interest. The facts as elicited are that some twenty I years ago John Mitchell, of Ballston, a thor ough spiritualist and a medium, was informed by the spirit of Benjamin Franklin that lying far beneath the surface of land owned by one Samuel Hyde, thare was a never failing spring of health giving water. Tbe precise spot was exactly defined by the perturbed spirit, and all that was needed to open it to the world was a confidante in the person of Mr. Hyde, and some one else with sufficient greenbacks to defray the cost of excavation and other nec essaries. Time passed on and the spring re mained hidden in the bowels of the earth, un til another communist with spirits, one Elijsh Comstock, who also happened to be well sup plied with money, was enlisted in the enter prise. A copartnership was formed between Hyde and Comstock, the conditions being that the last named should furnish the money for opening the spring, and have a one-third interest therein. Mitchell, being next to Franklin, the discoverer, was al**o to have one- third in tsrest, as was also Mr. Hyde, the own er of the land. * In March, 1869, after a lapse of sixteen years from the time Mitchell was firat in formed of tho spring by the spirit of tbe dead statesman, the spring was reaohed at a depth of 715 feet, Comstock having furnished the motive power, in the shape of hard cash. The spring was established, and its waters have since been drunk by thousands, and it , is now estimated to be worth to its owners at | least $50,000. Things ran along rather, smoothly until the close of the last year, ( when the usual accounting was to bo made. , Hyde and Comatook, for the first time since j the copartnership, failed to agree regarding j their respective interest in the profits arising i from a large business laat s&esou, and this j agreement resulted in the suit now pending. The parties were praseut y« sterday, accoui- ] panied by counsel, and arnoug tbs er statements made by the plaintiff, Hyde, is one that he believes Comstock to be possessed of a power not common with the poor mor tals of this sublunary sphere; in short, that he is invested with supernatural attributes, which causes him to be afraid of meeting j Comstock face to face. In support of this statement, Hyde asserted that, on one occa sion, while passing through one of Ballston a avenues, he met Comatook. The rencontre does not appear to have been a pleasant ono, for the supernatural powers of Cometock were exerted, but Hyde vanished, and the reaction of the spiritual medium, Comstock, was such as to cause the blood to flow in unrestrained freedom from his nose. The Journalist. From the Kaue&s Magazine. There is ft ia»n who sits far into the Eight with paste pot and scissors before him, and pencil in hand, while around him are piled newspapers of all grades, sizes, colors and political proclivities and from almost every conceivable locality. He rapidly cuts, paste's aud writes. Instinctively he rejects aii that is had, and his eye detects all that is good in the nooks and corners of the scores cf “ex changes” which pass through his hands in a few hours. If he remembered one-tenih of all he reads he would be a prodigy of varied learning, and by and by he would probably find his place in a lunatic asylum. Then he varies the wearisome routine by writing; not slowly and laboriously, bnt rapidly, discursively and some times brilliantly. What he does, he does not just as he pleases, but as a daiiy and un ending task. Every night as he creeps home ward in the small hours, the subject of the next “leader” creeps through his tired brain, and in the morning the necessity for immense action stares him in the face, Why these late hours and this silent, careiul, absorbing work? This man is the editor cf a daily paper, and every night he end his compan ions arc preparing the literary breakfast fer a sleeping world. It is a strange life he leads, and a strange world he works in. Ho wields a power in the land, bet contrary to general rule, he is almost an unknown man. As a gen eral statement, neither great pecuniary reward or fume await him. He does work which only the man born to the task can success fully perform. In him are necessary the qualities of skill, tact, judgment, fair scholar ship, a large fund of current intelligence, ere', ness, the capacity for rapid work with few er rors, and lastly that indefinable talent fer pleasing the many and offending the few, and yet accomplishing a specific and often a parti san purpose! Journalism is a profession, and the editor is strictly a professional man. To him belongs only the kind ot fame which per tains to professional skill, even if he be famous at alL After years of skillful toil he is almost unknown upon the street, and bat the credit ho deserves only among hie equally unknown brethren of the press. Indeed tbe great ma jority of the worker* in the world , most po tent and evanescent literature are not known at all. Soereely a man in ell Ragland knows to • certainty who is the tonbraUing spirit of the London Ynnrs, and there are few wbo care. In less remarkable instances than that, a news paper becomes popular, increases in circula tion , makes itself a pecuniary success and a po litical power in the land, and not a poor dozen of all its twenty, or fifty, or haadred thous and readers ever gives a thought to the per vading unknown personality that mad? r. all it is. From these belt it i« plain that jour nalism is something still more than a profes- aion ; it is also e passion. Tbe kind ot men who make a newspaper n nuaeasa where it is one, are not apt to work for money alone, even if amply paid pecuniarily. Them is u reward in it sowewhera, a hop., a gratifica tion; and that reward must bo in a personal pleasure in the peculiar work. It is true that ■he projectors and proprietors of newspapers have generally a pecuniary object in view, but we are speaking of tho men who daily make the newspaper all it it in the popular mind—who actually give it its character and that wealth which fire cannot destroy, and. which i« entirely unique in the commercial, valne-rstimating world.