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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL IS PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, HY T. LOMAX &, CO. TEXXEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor. Oifice on Randolph street. Citcnmj Department. Costopcteb by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.] To an unknown Friend, who had requested a Miniature of the author. Forgive the aitist, that he sent No traits re-ambling mine— Do thou the limner —let my face On fancy's tablets shine. What though the eye with mimic beam. Might meet thy kindly glance— No lights or shadows of the soul Would change its still expanse. What though the lip might wear a smile, By painter’s magic art — They could not speak the glowing words, That flow from heart to heart. Oh, no! believe me, friend unseen— I would not thou should.-* gaze Ou pictured hues, unless the soul, Could lend its living rays. Had once we met, then memory's hand Those living rays could give— That mighty limner of the pa t, Who bids the dead to live. Oh! darkly here, even lace to face, Through time’s dim glance wo see— Wait till our spirits meet amid The sun-tires of eternity. C. L. 11. [ WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL. 1 ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR PREMIUM ,rn. W -4 SE3 ® MINNIE ASHLEY. BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. CHAP TE R 1. “We heeded not the cold blast, nor the winter’s icy air. For we found our climate in the heart, and it was sum mer there.” f J. R. PRASE. “ ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come.” [BYRON. The snow had been falling Alowly and steadily all day, and as night cai\* ou there was no abatement of the growing dark, and Nelly Ashley—the mis tress of a cosy little farm-house, in one o! the very loveliest and quietest of New Eng land's many lovely and quiefc valleys—folded her work and laid it in the wicker basket at her feet. For a few moments she sat gazing thoughtfully in the fire, and then, rousing herself from a seemingly not unpleasing reve ry, approached the window, and shading her eyes with her hands, peered out into the darkness. Nothing but snow—snow—snow. The firS” and balsams in the yard were so heavily laden, that their branches nearly swept the ground, and even while she looked, one of the largest limbs of the cherry tree in the corner, broke beneath the weight, and with a dull, crashing sound, half buried itself as it fell. Dark lines here and there, cross ing the meadows, winding along the lane, at - (bordering the highway on either side, s\o’ feed where the fences should have been, and the flower beds on either side of the path, looked strangely like graves, with the snow so smoothly rounded over them. “I am afraid he will not come to-night, and if the wind should rise, the roads will be impassable before morning,” she murmur ed, as with a sigh she turned from the win dow, and wheeling the small table into the middle of the room, spread the pure white cloth upon it, and commenced preparing the evening meal. Gliding about with a quick, light step, she brought from Use pantry the roll of golden butter, the snowy loaf of her own manufacture, a plate of delicate cakes, some thin slices of cold meat, a dish of pre served cherries, and another of pale yellow hone}’. Having arranged them all to her satisfaction, she took from the mantlepiece the tall brass candlesticks that flashed and glittered in the fire-light, and placed them up on the table, drew the curtains stiil more closely, stirred the fire until the flame soared cheerily upward, moved the arm-chair a little nearer the nicely swept hearth, and then with a pleased glance around the neat and cheer ful room, seated herself to await her hus band's arrival. Moments seemed like hours to the expec tant wife, for Mr. Ashley had already been absent two days longer than he anticipated ; but the shade of anxiety that was beginning to settle upon her face, gave place to a beam ing smile, as the well known tinkling of sleigh hells, and the tones of a clear, manly yqiee fell upon her ear. She sprang to the .door, bt even before she could open it, her husband had flung down the lines, and with one hound, stood upon the broad stone door-step. “ Aii, NeH v, dear, I have come at last! 1 told you I would bring you a present from the city. Here, take it, while I shake the snow from my cap and overcoat.” Mrs. Ashley mechanically extended her arms, and her husband carefully placed with in them a bundle, bearing a striking resemb lance to a well wrapped up baby. “Why, John—John Ashley, what in the v.grld have you here?” she exclaimed, as the large cloak |q which it was enveloped fell to the floor, displaying the golden curls and glowing cheeks of a little girl, apparently nbout two years old. “And I declare she is sleeping so soundly that this bright light does not awaken her—what shall I do with her?” “Do with her ?” replied Mr. Ashley, laugh ing at his wife’s perplexed, bewildered look ; “whv, take off her hood and shawl, and then it she does not wake up, lay her on the settee there, while she finishes her nap.” VOI, 111. “M hat a sweet little creature she is! But where did you find her ? What are vou go ing to do with her ? Who does she belong to! asked Nellv, as she tenderly removed the wrappers, and kissed the still sleeping ; child. “She belongs to us, dear Nelly,’’ was the reph’, and there was no laughter in his voice now—it was tremulous with deep feeling, and i his eyes were dim with tears. “God has giv en her to us in place of our own little Ellen, ; who sleeps in the grave-yard yonder. She is ; motherless—fatherless by this time probably.” : And his voice grew still lower and a shudder j passed over his frame. “Shall she not be our j child henceforth ?” Just then, the little one, half awakened, threw her arms about restlessly, and Nelly drew her still closer to her bosom. The child i nestled therewith a smile on its parted lips, as : it it had found its home once more, and whis- i pered “manitna mamma!” .Mrs Ashley hurst into tears, and her husband took the babe . and laid it upon vie settee, arranging the pil- ! lows so that the iAe-h'ght need not fall upon the little face, he tVeded no other answer. “Now let us bavatea, Nelly, for I am cold ! and hungry, and yodr table looks very invit- j ing. ‘There is no pluve like home,’ after all, ! and 1 am so tired of tVe noise and bustle of! the city. Don’t cry an\ more now, dear; af ter supper 1 must tell y<fc a long story, and a very sad one.” And JOVI Ashley drew his wife towards him, and lni&her head upon his broad breast, as fondly as\e bad done upon the evening of their bridal. The repast was soon over, and in a very little while, Nelly’s quick Lands had re arranged all things in theiimroper places, and she seated herself by herAsband’s side, saying, “I am ready to hear y\r story now, John; but if I may judge from vour face, it is indeed a very sad one.” e “Sad enough—sad enough, Nt y —but it must be told, nevertheless. Do remem ber George Morton ?” i “Os course, I do. 1 could forge’ one of my own brothers just as soon, kind, ! and noble, and generous he was, ana to full of life and energy! It is along timeXiuce he was here last. Let me see—it was the winter after we were married. llave* T ou heard anything of him?” “Yes, Nelly, I have seen him ; and the tyft I have brought you is from him. Minnie A; | is his only child.” i “Is it possible? I supposed he was yet \i i India. But—but—did you not say she xv\ I fatherless /” V “I did, Nelly,” and, bending low, air. Ash “ ley whispered in his wife’s ear a few words, , that must have been of most startling im ! port —for her face blanched to the hue| ol j marble—she shivered from head to foot, rind j clasping her hands over her eyes, a low fry !of horror broke from her lips. Then sprijig | ing to her feet, while the red blood rush of | in ! torrents to Iter neck and brow, sheexdaiijl Red: j “No! no! Ido not believe it! I will inst be | lieve it! John—John—in mercy tell mil that j you do not credit this tale!” “1 do not, Nelly ; God knows Ido no be lieve it. But sit down again, ani hear *j'hat 1 have to tell you.” She obeyed, and for more than wo In >urs, Mr. Ashley’s voice, subdued to a loop, sad undertone, filled the room, unintermted save by an occasional question or exeunt Vi on from Nelly ; for the little Minnie, co.pl. Jiely tired out with the long journey, sp| on quietly. ’ | “And now, Nelty, you know all tha’ lcan tell vou about the matter. This chik, vliat j Providence has so strangely thrown uptn our ; | care, is as truly ours, that is, as far as the j | claims of others are concerned, as if our flood ! ran in her veins. She is too voung to reuWm- I * 3 11 j ! ber aught of the past, and we will not dawn ■ her 3’oung life by teaching her the st<-V. i Let us call her Minnie Ashley —we will be\&> her as father and mother, and she shall be us as a daughter —she shall fill the place le\l vacant when our little Ellen died. She shall never know that she is not indeed our child.’ Why .are you so silent, Nelly? Do you not agree with me?” “Yes, John, I agree with you, and yet I do not exaetty either. 1 was thinking of the fu ture while you spoke. 1 was asking myself if it would not he better that she should know | the truth. I do not think it would lessen her love for us, and circumstances 11103* arise, | which will render it necessary that she should | learn it.” “I do not see how that can be, Nell v. We ! shall remove to Ohio in the Spring, far from j all our old friends, and old associations. : There will be none to say to her, tyou have no claim upon those whom you call parents.’ Even if God should grant us other children, it need make no difference. Whv not let her remain, in what will surety be, in her case, blissful ignorance?” “But she will not always be a child. What if her hand is sought in marriage ? Could 3*ou give it to any one without first telling the story of her parentage ?” “Yes. We have adopted her as our own. We will rear and educate her as we would a daughter. She is a mere infant now—her mind and character are*wholly unformed. We can make her what we choose, and she will be, to all intents and purposes, ours. In keeping our secret we shall be doing injus tice to no one, and only rendering her hap pier ? Do you not see that it is so ?” “I do not know but you are right, John : but—” I “But what?” % dirotyerti oeti!iwtt “\A by, I never yet knew any good come of ! concealing the truth. It almost always re veals itself sooner or later. It would be a terrible thing to say to her, 3 7 ears hence, ‘Minnie, you are not our child—we have been acting a lie all our lives long.’ But let her grow up with a knowledge of the truth forming a part of her earliest recollections, and I do not believe it would render her un happy.” “It might not, if she would rest satisfied with knowing merely that she was not our child. But oh, Nelly, Nelly, how could we tell her all? We will act no lie, for we will think of her, and love her, and speak of her ,as our own, and our hearts will claim her as such. Let us then say to our neighbors here that she is the child of a friend, and when we go West, our new acquaintances will take it for granted that she is ours, and we need say nothing at all about it. But she is wa king. I will bring the crib down stairs, while you are undressing her, and giving her some milk. Does 1113’ little Minnie know she has got home ?” he added, as he stooped to caress the little creature, who was now thoioughly awake, and looking around her in bewilder ed astonishment. She lifted her la-gs brown e3'es as he spoke, and laving her cheek to his, repeated after him in her broken accents, “Minnie dot home—Minnie dot home!” C FI A P T E R 11. ‘•When fair Ohio rolls his amber tide, And nature blossoms in her virgin pride.” [ HUMPHREYS. “The young! Oh, what should wandering fancy bring In life’s first spring-time, but the thoughts of spring? World without winter, blooming amaranth bowers, Garlandsof brightness, wreathed from changeless flow ers.” , [ MRS. NORTON. Little Minnie Ashley*—for she knew no other name—had indeed found a home. Not mere ly a place where she could eat and sleep, and he sheltered alike* from the summer sun and the cold blasts of winter—but a home, in the truest, holiest sense of the word—a heart home, where Love and Peace dwelt continu ally, and where kind looks and words were “showered on her path like dew.” And alas, for the child who finds not such a borne! Alas! for the little one, who, when its heart is filled with a vague, desolate yearning to be loved—caressed —petted, if you will—is turned aside with a careless word, or an im patie it gesture; who, when its young, tender affections are pining for bread, receives but a stone. God pity such an one, for it has no home, even though it 0133’ dwell in the halls of its fathers, cradled in luxury and surroun ded f>3 r affluence. \ Ohio, at the time when our story cornnten j|es, was the far West; and it was not without u iany tears, and many struggles with her \wn heart, that Mrs. Ashley bade adieu to ; \ green banks of the Connecticut, and gird tAher spirit to meet the privations and trials ev,\v where attendant upon the pathway of tht.Y migrant. But in their case, those pecu liarAials and privations were of short dura tion., So rapid was the settlement of the couu, y, that they were not long in the wil derness ; and even before little Minnie had ceasc'l to be a child, a village had sprung up at a ‘-cry short distance from the beautiful promontory that Mr. Ashley had selected for his residence. A village, with its church spires piercing the blue ether; its school houses and academy; its stores and its hotel; and, at no distant intervals, the bell of the passing steamer mingled sweetly with the chiming of the mimic waves that curled and dashed around the little pier. In common with other early settlers, a log cabin had sheltered them for the first few years; but as soon as it was practicable, Mr. Ashley erected in its place, a tasteful and commodious dwelling. He was no artist, or at best, an untaught one; but the site he had selected was, nevertheless, just the one an artist would have chosen. Tall trees, in the back ground, lifted their crested heads until they seemed to touch the sky, and com \pletely sheltered the house from the North Wind; in front, the closely shaven turf sloped downward to the water’s edge. On the East, j ‘.lie curving of the shore formed a small bay, ; ioViutiful enough to have been the favorite ’ h iknt of Naiads; and on the West, but near ly iVidden from view by a bend in the liv er Ad by the intervening trees, lay the vil la geA Minnie loved rambling as well as the IndikA girls, whom she still occasionally* met ’ in the A) rest, and whenever she found a tree | or a sh\ib of rare beauty, she would not rest until, W*h her father’s assistance, it was j transferred to their own domain, and wherev er a wild lower would grow, wherever there j “’as augfittfor a rose to cling to, or for a climbing plant to clasp with its caressing | tendrils, there she planted it, until the little I promontory, in the course of time, became a very “wilderness of sweets.” Their new home had become very* dear to the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. Ashley ; not less j dear than the ones their chddhood knew in far New England, or that still dearer spot j where they had first together reared an altar to their house hold gods. Sorrow, as well as ! joy, bad visited t iern there. There was a 1 little enclosure in one corner of the garden, ! and within it lay two small graves. Twice had they gazed upon a babe’s sweet face, just long enough to learn to love it, and then ; seen it, as if pining for purer air, droop, and gasp, and die. And as they smoothed the j g’ een turf above each tiny form, and thought of their first-born, Ellen, sleeping in the land of their fathers, their hearts turned with re j doubled fondness to their darling Minnie, COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 28, 1852. and they blessed God that their hearth was not quite desolate. Mr. Ashley’s wishes with regard to the se cret of Minnie’s parentage, had been reli giously regarded. Loving her parents with all the fervor of her enthusiastic nature, she 1 had never dreamed that she was theirs only I lty adoption. From her earliest childhood, j a peculiar dread of orphanage seemed to have held possession of her mind, and noth ing so quickly enlisted her sympathies in be half of another, as the simple words, “he is an orphan.’’ She would gaze upon such an one in silence, with her lips quivering,her bo som heaving, and the large tears gathering in her eyes, until she could control herself no longer, and then, hiding her face upon her j mother’s breast, she would sob forth her grief and pity. Was it any wonder, then, that Mrs. Ashley rejoiced in her inmost heart, at length, that the sensitive child was spared the pain of knowing that she was indeed fa therless and motherless? “What can be the reason that Minnie does not come? It is growing late, and I fear she has ridden farther than she ought,” said Mr. Ashley, one beautiful evening in June, as he came slowly up the path from the river, and seated himself in the piazza, where his wife was waiting Minnie’s arrival. “I have been fearing the same filing,” she replied. “Minnie is fairly bewitched with her pony, and when once in the saddle, for gets time and distance. Still she rides so well for a girl of fourteen, and Chloe is so perfectly gentle, that I am not often uneasy about her.” “Fourteen years old, did you say? llow time flies! I should have said she was about twelve. Yet she is growing very womanly in her looks and appearance. Oh ! here comes the Gipsy*, hut at a much more reasonable pace than is usual. What can be the mat ter?” “Why, the child has surely been in the water,’’ exclaimed Mrs. Ashlev, as Minnie approached, with a look of comic serious ness upon her face, and the moisture drop ping from the heavy skirt of her riding dress, which fell in one compact mass nearly to the ground. “Minnie, Minnie, what mad prank have 3 r ou been playing now ?” “Only taking a ride in Willow Brook, dear mother! Don't you think it must have been pleasant ? especially the after part—the ride home, with such gracefully flowing robes? They stared at me in the village as if I had been a mermaid,’’ and raising the skirt with both hands—for she had lay this time dis mounted—she dropped a low courtesy to her mother, and whirled away in a waltz. “Mermaid or not, 3’ou will catch cold, if you stay here dancing with that wet dress on. Go change it immediately, and then come into the parlor and tell us what you have been about.” Away she flew, and before maity minutes had elapsed, entered the parlor, with her hair neatly arranged, and the prettiest of lawn dresses on, and seated herself demurely at Mrs. Ashley’s feet. “Now for an account of your ride, my daughter. We are all impatient,” said Mr. Ashley, as he drew her towards him, and pla ced her on his knee. “I am afraid you have been imprudent.” “A\ ell, father, I really have had quite an adventure; and I do not think I was as im prudent as I was thoughtless. It was so pleasant riding, after my confinement in school all day, that I kept on and on, with out thinking how late it was, or how far I was going, until I was startled by finding | myself at the falls. 1 kne w that if I went round by* the road, it would be dark long be fore I could reach home; but if 1 crossed Willow Brook, just below the mill, it would be but half an hour’s ride. I have often done j so, and never found the water deep, or Chloe j unmanageable. But the rain of y*esterday had swollen the stream, and when we had got fairly in the middle, where the water was deep and the current strong, she became so j frightened that she would neither go back ward nor forward. There she stood, pran cing and plunging, but making 110 progress towards either bank. I was not exactly frightened, hut I had begun to suspect that I might he in danger, and to know that I was in a very unpleasant predicament, when a gentleman, who was leisurely’ strolling along the road, saw my position and came to my rescue. Chloe was more frightened than ev | er, when he attempted to seize the bridle, | and would have thrown me, if he had not , lifted me from the saddle and carried me to the shore with one arm, while he wound the reins around the other.” “A ou have had a very narrow escape, my | dear child,” said Mr. Ashley, very gravely, j-“ Encumbered as vou were, with vour long J * 0 I skirt, vou could not have saved yourself had you been thrown. Do not attempt crossing the brook again. It rises very rapidty, and ! sometimes with little apparent cause, and I ; would rather you would be late home, than that you should run such risks. But if you will only be a little more thoughtful, there is no need of vour doing either. Who was the i gentleman?” “I do not know—he was a stranger here, I am sure.” “Is he young or old ? A\ ? hen did he leave 3’ou ? YYu should have invited him home, if he is a stranger, for I presume his clothes were as wet as your own. J really hope he will not take cold,” continued kind Mrs. Ash ley, full of gratitude to the unknown for the service he had rendered her child. “He is a young man—not over twenty, I should think. He kept his hand on Cldoe’s bridle as far as the village, and then said he must leave me. I did invite him to come here, telling him that you would be glad of an opportunity to thank him for his kindness. But he said he had friends awaiting him, and must hasten on. Wasn’t it quite an adven ture, father ? If I was only Lady this, or Countess that, and he some great Prince in disguise, it would do to put in a story book.” “Quite an adventure, indeed, my little Min nie; but you had better be thinking about your canary birds and your flowers, than about Princes in disguise, or great Ladies. Go to bed now, darling, for you look very ti red, and try to think seriously enough of this affair, to make you a little more careful for the future. Good night.” There were tears in Minnie’s eyes, as she bent to receive bis uoual kiss, and as she threw her arms about her mother’s neck, they rolled slowly down her cheek. Her gavety had been only the effect of undue excitement —the reaction of feeling when she felt herself safe once more—and when she reached her room, and knelt to offer up her evening prayer, the words that sprang to her lips came from the depths of a loving and grate ful heart. CHAPTER 111. “So pr'ythae come— our lete will be But half a fete, if wanting thee.” [ rofE. Please imagine, reader mine, that four years have passed since our Minnie’s ride in Willow Brook. Four years that have chan ged the merry and often thoughtless school-girl, to as fair and sweet a maiden as ever trod the flowery verge of womanhood. “It is a long time since 1 heard from Jessie Arnold, mother. Ido hope father will bring me a letter this morning.” “Perhaps he will, my love; but you must remember that Jessie is now both a belle and an acknowledged beauty, and probably does not think of her old friends as often as for merly. Nay, do not look sad. Minnie; I on ly mean that when Mr. Arnold resided here, Jessie had very few associates of her own age. You were, indeed, her only intimate friend. Since they removed to Cleaveland, she has mingled freely with the woild, and formed many new friendships. You must he contented now to share with others, what was once yours alone. But your father is com ing, and see! he smiles and holds up a letter.” “So he does, and I can tell Jessie’s hand writing, even at this distance. Thank you— thank you, papa,” she added, as Mr. Ashley threw the letter into her lap. “We were just talking of Jessie. What! still another?” “Not for you, Miss Minnie. Y'ou must not claim all the good things. This is for moth er,” and giving it to his wife, Mr. Ashley drew a package of newspapers from his pock et, and was soon absorbed with political news. “Well, what does Jessie write ? Mercy on us! Bo you mean to read that volume through to-dav ? You young ladies certain ly have an immense amount of patience— sometimes! I will look over the rest of my papers, and you can answer my question when you get to the end.” “Oh no, sir; you need not wait so long for news from your favorite. I can read the last page some other time,” replied Minnie, laughing. “The most important thing she has to say is, that her father will be here next week, and will expect to take me home with him on his return. She says, ‘You must come, Minnie ; you have not visited us once, and it is nearly two years since we came to Cleaveland; and then the 28th will be my birth-dav, and Harry is bent on our giving a party. Father says yes —so I suppose it is a settled thing. Now, don’t disappoint me. Ido want to see you so. And, by the way, if you have anv purchases to make, you had better defer them until you get here.— You can make a better selection than in M •, and I will see that my seamstress is at your service. We will dress alike once more, as we used to do when we were little girls, and wore short frocks and pantalets.’ ” “Womanlike! planning about your dress es, before she knows whether you are to meet or not,” said Mr. Ashley, as he took oft* Lis coat and exchanged it for a comfortable dressing gown. “Would you like to go, Minnie?” “Oh, yes, indeed, sir. 1 should like it very much, if mother was well; but I fear she cannot get along without me. Who would read to her, or sing for her, or feed the cana ries, or water the plants, or ?” “Y r ou are a very important personage, are you not, Minnie, love?” interrupted Mrs Ashley. “I shall miss you, of course, but I think you had better go. We have but little society here, and you have never been away from home without me. It will do you good to be placed where you will be obliged to think and act for yourself. Don’t you think so, Mr. Ashley?” “Why, yes, l suppose so. When is Mr. Arnold to be here ?” “Next week ; and the week after, she must be ready to go. Y'ou had better write to Jessie immediately, Minnie, and tell her she may expect you.’’ The next two weeks flew rapidly. Minnie had many arrangements to make previous to leaving home ; but at length all was ready— the trunks packed and fastened, and the neat travelling dress waited to be donned on the morrow. Minnie wont to her room early in the evening, and was leisurely brushing her | hair previous to retiring, when her mother j entered. “That is a dear good mother,’’ said Minnie, drawing forward the little rocking chair; “I was just wishing you would come and sit ! with ine awhile. It will seem so long until we meet again.” “Three months will pass quickly, my daughter, and I hope you will be very happy, j And there is another thing that 1 hope : I j hope that there will be no veil drawn between your heart and mine, during these weeks of separation. You have made me very happy, j Minnie, by continuing to treat me, since you ! have grown older, with exactly the same ; confidence that you did when a child, by j making me the sharer of every thought and j feeling, so that I could rejoice with you when j you were glad, and soothe and comfort you when you were in trouble. Will you not do ! so still ?” “Indeed, indeed I will, mother. Where should I turn to find a friend as tender and faithful as you have ever been ? And I feel to-night more than I have ever before, how greatly l shall miss your counsel and sympathy. I have always breathed my thoughts aloud in your presence, dearest mother; now I shall be obliged to keep them to myself, and it will be a hard task.” “You must put them on paper for my ben efit, Minnie. Write to me very often, and very freely. Y’ou will form new acquain tances—let me know your impressions with regard to them, and every thing else that in terests you. But I only came in to give you a good-night kiss, and to remind you that the stage will be along at six. Y’ou will need to rise as early as five. Good night, my child.” CHAPTER IV. “Heart on her lip, and soul within her eyes.” [byron. “ He says he love3 my daughter; I think so too— And to bo plain, I think there is n it half a kiss to choose, Which lores the other best.” [shakspeare. “Cleaveland, Sept. 22. “I have now been here just a week, my dear mother, and am beginning to feel quite at home. I wrote you a few lines on the day of our arrival, which you have probably re ceived ere this. You never saw any one more delighted than Jessie is, at having me with her again. She is somewhat changed—hut the alterations are till for the better—so I have no reason to complain. It seems to me that her eyes have grown deeper and darker than ever, and I never looked upon a face with so much soul in it. Henry is as wild and full of fun as ever, and Mrs. Arnold is just what she always was; I cannot say more in her praise if I try.” “27th.—To-morrow will be Jessie’s birth day, and we have been very busy all day, ma king creams and ices for the party. The rooms are all arranged, and look beautifully. llow I wish you eould be here, dear mamma, for I really think you would enjoy it. My dress is done—white tarleton over a satin slip—and we—that is, Jessie and I—are to wear natu ral flowers in our hair. The dear girl must make the most of this birth-day, for if I read the signs of the times aright, she will be in another home when the next one dawns. Charles Evelyn calls here frequently, and al though they do not appear like acknowledg ed lovers now, I imagine they will be, before a great while. He is a noble fellow, worthy even of her. Jessie talks a great deal of a : fiiend of hers—Herbert Lacy—whom I have ! not yet seen; but she speaks so freely of him that I do not think he is, in any degree, a rival of Evelyn’s.” “29th —Well, the party is over—it went off charmingly, too—and oh, mother! I have something really worth writing this time. Who do you think I have seen ? But you could not guess in a day. The evening was more than half spent, and Jessie had just whispered, ‘lt is so late that I don’t be lieve Herbert Lacy is coming,’ when a fine voice just behind us said, ‘Good evening, Miss Arnold!’ She turned, and the next mo j ment presented Mr. Lacy to me. It was with j difficulty that I suppressed a start and an ex i clurnation, for the self same young man who | helped Chloe and me out of Willow Brook so long ago, stood before me! He bowed, and I bowed, and just then the musicians struck up a Mazourka—Charley Evelyn came to claim Jessie’s hand—and we were left aione —that is,alone in a crowd. He looked a little puzzled, but invited me to dance, which I did, of course. After he had led me to a seat in another room—for I declined dancing any more—he stood talking with me, for a few moments, about one thing and another, and then remarked, ‘I am almost sure that I have met you before, Miss Ashley. Y r our counte nance and voice are very familiar.* “Y ou would be right in saying you were quite sure,” I replied. “I recognized you the moment I saw you.” He blushed, and looked ; as if he knew not what to say at finding my 1 memory so much better than his own, and I, j mischievously enjoying his confusion, said ! not a word to help him. At length, after hes itating and stammering for a minute, lie laughed gaylv. ‘1 may as well confess at once, Miss Ashley; I am perfectly conscious of having met and conversed with you be fore—but where, I cannot possibly tell; can you V “Certainly, sir,” I responded gravely; “we met in Willow Brook, in the middle of the stream, just below the mill, and our interview lasted while my black Chloe walked from there to the village of M .” TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,.. .$2 00 “ “ “ “ “"am mrnitiS; 250 “ “ “ “* “ “ at end of year, 300 KATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - - - - $1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of thosa wh advertise largely. NO. 22. “True enough! and it is very strange that I did not know you ; and yet not so strange, either, for you are much altered, and then the difference in your dress must be taken into the account. Why, we are really old ac quaintances,” he added, extending his hand. I gave him mine, and my eyes filled with tears, as I attempted to repeat the thanks I had first uttered years ago. Just then Jessie came along, and looked utterly confounded, when Mr. Lacy told her that lie had found an old acquaintance in Miss Ashley. She know all about the Willow Brook adventure, and you will readily imagine that we spent a very pleasant evening after our mutual discoveries.” “Oct. Ist.—Y our last reached me this mor ning, dearest mother. lam so rejoiced to hear that you are better. I like Cleaveland more and more. It is a beautiful place, and Mr. Arnold’s house is delightfully situated. There is a fine view of the Lake from the garden, and last night Evelyn and Mr. Lacy called, ! and we went out to see the steamers from | Buffalo come in. They were brilliantly illu | minuted, and I never beheld a more ro&gnifi j cent spectacle. I could think of nothing but 1 the ‘Arabian Nights,’ and the fairy tales I used to devour when l was a little girl. By the way, I like Mr. Lacy very much.” “10th.—Evelyn has told his love, and Jessie listened kindly, and referred him to ‘Papa.’ ‘Papa’ consented, of course, and said if they wanted to.be married, there was no use in being forever about it—he did not be lieve iu long engagements —it wasn’t the way these things were managed when he was young, and—strange to say—Charley agreed with him entirely. Jessie demurred a little at first, but the result of it all is, tho wedding is to take place the middle ol No vember. lam so glad, and yet it fairly takes away one’s breath,-to think of hurrying ! matters so. Jessie says, ‘lt is really provi dential that you are here, Minnie, dear.’ ” “20th.—Jessie has concluded to be married very quietly. I am to be bridesmaid, and Mr. Lacy groomsman.” “27 th.—l am beginning to long so forborne, dear mother. I have felt sad and lonely all day. 1 have been trying to help Jessie about her sewing, but I put one sleeve in tlie wrong armhole, and nearly finished a night cap be fore I discovered that it was wrong side out wards. So Jessie begged me to put up my needle and thimble, before I ruined all her things. Evelyn is in great trouble. Mr. La cy has been called to Detroit on business, and fears he may be detained until after the wedding. If so, they will have to find an other groomsman.” “Nov. 11th.—Mr. Lacv got back yesterday, and the bride and bridegroom elect, are greatly relieved. They are going to Wash ington after their marriage, hut will accom pany me home first. The 17th is the day appointed for the ceremony, and you may look for us on the evening of the 19th. Mr. Lacy will be with us, of course.” * CHAPTER V. “I love thee, and I feel That in the fountain of my heart, a real Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright For thee.” [siielley. Mrs. Ashley did indeed miss her daughter, even more than she anticipated, and most welcome were the dainty little epistles that were sure to arrive with every mail, and some extracts from which we have given in the preceding chapter. It would have been hard to have found a neater, prettier, or more cheerful home than | that which was waiting to receive Minnie and ! her friends. On the evening of the 19th, ; Mrs. Ashley hurried from room to room, try ing to convince herself that she was very busy, when the truth was, that everything had been in perfect order long before noon, and Mr. Ashley was continually glancing from the clock to the window. At length ho threw down the newspaper he was holding— not reading—and laughed heartil v. “We are two very foolish bodies, are we not, Nelly? The stage will not be here before six at tho earliest, and it is now but little past five. — Come sit down by the fire and he quiet; you have dusted that table a dozen times already, I Don’t you feel some curiosity about this Mr. Lacy ?’’ “Yes, indeed, I do, John. I have been afraid, lately, that Minnie was becoming at tached to him.” “Why do you say ‘afraid,’ dear? Ido not think that Minnie would love unworthily; nor with all her enthusiasm, depth of feeling, *and romance, if you choose to call it so, do ; I think she would be likely to give her affec ! tions unsought. His intimacy in Mr. Ar nold’s family is, to my mind, sure proof of his worth, for my friend is a quick discerner of character. So it Minnie loves him, and he loves her, I only say, ‘God bless them.’ But there comes the stage, full half an hour before the time,” he exclaimed, as the loud “whoa” of the driver was heard, and the prancing, foaming steeds halted before the door. A moment more, and Minnie was in her mother’s arms, and whispering her delight at being again at home. “God bless you, Herbert!” whispered Ev elyn, as he grasped his friend’s hand the next morning, while Jessie w r as saying good bye to Mrs. Ashley and Minnie. “God bless you, and speed your wooing! for I suppose your delicacy, or whatever you call it, will vanish now.” “Laugh, if you please, Charley; I Minnie kuow< that I love her, for tnv eve#