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Yvl M W- i l| T. L. MITCHELL, Publisher. Vol. s.— No. 9.] Wgir-Tt j^Hr~-"*"‘""r a -*» - 1 ■ '■. ■ ‘‘You snnt for me, papa,” she says in a 2?,. <?>' , A .. low, rich voice, full of /z A love and happiness. ■ “1 see you have a let- j ter f rom **° me — an y " bad news?” she asks, ijh a little anxiously. j rg There is no linger- 1 y - ' ' ■-'’ Aq > > n g fondness in her •sjx -^J^ : ■'■' '■"' . 'S< -/ k ' ,„.. tones as she pro- '■'• ' x nounces the word — - ’’’ “home,” for home in New York PvK/" J means very little to her; her heart ' «k- - <-A is fllted with thoughts of her be- loved father and Italy! For Woman’s Work. A THOUGHT, As the years have come so the years will go, Till green mounds cover the friends we know, And the cheeks that blush and the bright eyes true. Lie white and still ’neath the sod and dew. From the joysand cares of life, set free By the touch of Death’s strange mystery. And we all shall solve the problem deep as we close our eyes in that final sleep. Clifton S. Wady. Somerville. Mass. For Woman’s Work. HERITAGE. BY CLARA SYDNEY WILLIAMSON. To My Beloved Aunt. Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace f —Tbnnyson. CHAPTER I. HAVE often wondered, in my own small way, what train of thought is in the minds of those great men—what gives ' rise to those thoughts—when they write or utter a series of words form ing only a short sentence, perhaps, which renders them famous forever. Wordsworth said: “The child is father to the man.” Now, while my illustration which follows may not be strictly and aptly elegant, still I take advantage of the privileges we story-writers enjoy, and pro ceed to my task. Have you not noticed the child, when he has done something he knows he ought not to have done, how he lingers and hesitates to go to his parent for chastisement? He is afraid; the con sequences, he thinks, may be uncomforta ble, to say the least, and so he pauses at the door, loath to open it; finally he tosses his head aside and boldly enters though secretly in fear and trembling. Here is my friend, the Honorable Herbert Ray, the great banker of New York, holding an open letter in his hand, the contents of which bid him return home at once, and he is afraid—yes positively afraid—to send for his daughter, (a “mere chit of a girl,” you may say, when I tell you she is only eighteen) and tell her they must leave Rome at once. “I must leave immediately, this letter says; what will Heritage say? Ah, my little daughter; this is the first time she has ever been called upon to make any sacrifices—how will she bear it? She has been a loving, dutiful daughter, always. It Is seldom that a father is so blest in a child as I. But this procrastination will not do; I must tell her—my peerless onel” He pauses a moment only, then walks quickly over to a table and rings a tiny silver bell. “Tell my daughter to come to me,” he says to the servant who answers his summons. For five years he has been abroad with his daughter; they traveled constantly for a year, and at the end of that time they settled down in Rome, where Heritage q| l i Vv d Bl 1 -— \ g| WOM ANS WORK . , nj THE PATHWAY OF A GOOD WOMAN CAN BE TRACED BY DEEDS OF KINDNESS. ATHENS, GEORGIA, SEPTEMBER, 1892. wished to study. She was the idolized jX' '** child of an idola- trous father—h e r V ? every wish was to him a written law It w a 8 remark ’■* able, the great affec- tion he bore her; strange, because she had cost the life of her mother, whom he adored The voung mother had died, leaving this beautiful daughter; and how faithfully Herbert Ray had watched and tended her. She was now eighteen, and she had two loves—her father and her art. She had great genius; she longed to be an artist— longed with that eagerness which knows no quelling. To ask was to receive, with her, and when she begged to be allowed to study in Rome, her father consented most willingly. ‘ Os what consequence is my wealth—my love—if Ido out lavish all upon my daughter, Heritage?” he would say. Heritage was his all; the one being on earth whom he adored, and for whom he lived and breathed. His line of ancestry was a long and noble one, and now this Heritage was the last of her race. Upon her much depended, and she realized this fact in its fullest meaning; she did not sleep upon her op portunities. She had a brilliant future before her; she was destined to become a famous woman ; all Rome knew her, even now, and she was but eighteen. Only a few months previous to the open ing of our story she had painted a picture which had received the very highest en comiums of praise from leading and re nowned critics. “The American girl painted this pic ture,” they said; “she has great genius.” “Certainly she has genius, and why not?” said the visiting Americans. They were proud that she, one of their own country women, should achieve such triumph. And her father wept in his pride of her. “My own little Heritage,” he said; “my little daughter, I had not thought to see this day—l had not thought to see my child possessed of so much talent; I wish your mother could see you now 1 Ah, how fervently I wish she had been spared as lam to enjoy your success; you are like her, my little one; you are as she was when we were married.” “Ah, my father; you are pleased to flatter me. I can never lock like my mother; my mirror tells the tiuth, dear papa!” She laughed a low, rippling, musical laugh that sounded like liquid dia monds rushing over seas of pearl. Then a few months passed away, and Mr. Ray received this letter, calling him home. He dreaded telling Heritage, and yet he must. He heard her footsteps coming nearer, nearer—she was even now in the room. Lo! behold her; she is not what your fancy painted, is she? She is like the first breath of the soft caressing spring, full of hope; her every motion betokens her eager, glad young life. “She is no longer a child,” you say. No, but do not breathe your knowledge, for neither father nor daughter have realized that yet; do not inveil the truth to their eyes. “Not exactly bad news, Heritage; still, not pleasant by any means, especially to you, I fear, my darling.” And he glanced at his daughter furtively. But no slightest suspicion of the truth came over her; she merely looked at her father in a question ing way. “Well, papa, tell me, at any rate; pleas ant or unpleasant, as long as I have you with me I am content; anything else makes but small difference to me.” and she kissed her father fondly. “Ah, my child, what a peerless treasure you are 1 But come, I must tell you the news: I have just received this letter from my lawyer, telling me of important business affairs that demand my immedi ate personal attention. I must go to New York, but, Heritage, I cannot go without you, what am I to do?” For a full minute she stood looking out into the garden beyond; then slowly turn ing her gaze toward her father, she said : “You say, papa, that this letter bids you come home as soon as possible, immedi ately; in turn you ask what must you do? My beloved papa, full well 1 know that if I said, ‘let the business go,’ you would do as I said, but I know that you must go, and it would indeed be cruel of me to force you to gratify my childish whims. I love Rome, love every spot in it, love my teachers; lam so happy here, I am loath to leave. I should be content to spend the remainder of my life here, singing to jou, and painting pictures; but oh, papa, I owe you more than I can ever pay, and it would ill-behoove me to say nay to any thing that you might suggest. I shall not attempt to conceal the fact that this is a sacrifice, but I do it cheerfully, willingly, for your sake.” She kissed him as she spoke. Mr. Ray looked at his daughter with a great, rever ent affection in his eyes. Lo, all suddenly Heritage had grown older; it seemed as though she had reached out her hand and plucked the ripe golden years. He took her in his arms and kUsed her. “God bless you, my child, and keep you. You say, Heritage, that you would be con tent to stay here forever, with ,me; you cannot mean it—you are too ymiag and fair to have such selfish fancies regarding yourself.” He glanced at her as he spoke, but no flush rose to the white brow; she looked calmly down into his eyes—she had not divined his meaning. “She has not thought of love or lovers,” he said to himself; “but it will all come by and by.” Then, suddenly remembering himself, he said: “Heritage, I expect we had better begin to make arrangements for our departure at once, as time grows short.” He loved his daughter so dearly that he hated to see her make ready for the sacri fice, and abruptly turned and left the house. chapter ii. It takes much time and care and thought to arrange the necessaries of our lives, and to render our homes and our loved ones happy and comfortable; a little touch here, another there, a bit of choice bric-a-brac, or a cup and saucer purchased from some little out-of-the-way place—all these go to make up pleasant surroundings; and, as I said before, it takes time to put all these ; things in order. Yet, on the other hand, very little time is necessary to disarrange all this. So Heritage Ray found when she went to prepare for her homeward journey, and with the aid of her servants, she was soon ready. They intended leaving the next day. Heritage donned her hat, and went to say farewell to her beloved teacher and friend, Signor Lydon. “You are going, Heritage,” he said, as he held her hand at parting. “Ah child, you must come back to me some day; write to me; I must hear from you when you are far away in yourold home. Heri tage, the world must hear from you—your genius must not die I “Listen, Heritage, listen dear; there is but one way to keep your lamp burning, and that is to work, work, work! Keep your lamp well trimmed and burnihed, and study unceasingly. You have only two loves—your father and your art. Heritage, let none other fid your thoughts. The human heart has only room tor one passion at a time, and, my dnar, you could notcoi quer love—love would conquer you. “Bear in mind, Heritage, what 1 say—you must not love. You have a great future before you; your name will be banded down to future generations, as a great light. Heritage, my dear, your face is bright and beautiful; all before you now is sweet as a summer’s day. 1 prav fervei t ly that it may ever be so. 1 trust that your bright, glad, eager young heart will never know bitterness. You must come back to me again; it is as though a vital part of my lite were being torn from me, you leaving me. Farewell, Heritage. And she went from his presence like one in a dream. He had said: “You must not love ;” she pondered over his words; what did he mean ? She asked herself over and over again. She had read romance after romance, her soul was steeped in poetry, yet she had never given one thought to love or lovers. No lover had come to her as yet; no man had breathed into her ears words of love and devotion. Was Lydon wise to glance at the match with which to kindle the fires of Heritage Ray’s soul? But the girl walked on, thinking and wondering about—she hardly knew what. She was wavering between her old world and another which she was soon to enter—but about which, as yet, she knew nothing. CHAPTER in. It was lats When heritage reached the villa. She shuddered when she realized that she was coming to that little garden for the last tinie. “For the last time!” What a world of sadness in those words, and how much they can imply I Mr. Ray was waiting for her‘; he kissed her lovingly, tenderly. “My sweet chila/*' he murmured softly. They went in and partook of the simple tea that had been prepared for them. When they had fin ished they went into the music room. “Sing for me, Heritage, my song-bird,” he said gently. He was so sorry for her, he almost hated himself for being the cause of any unhappiness to her. She laid her glad young arms about his neck and put her head on his shoulder. “Papa, darling, you do love me—do you not ?” [continued on fourth page ] F'"'?" r ll,nwy l gl|ss=E||ig = I |g) ||s=si|[ lei = KATE GARLAND. Editress [SO Crs. per Year.