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MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1870. No.40 Sjjj»rfl5.V * ROBERTS, Lessee Editors & Proprietors. OR®® 13 Editor *2,1)1) per annum, in Advance. fiiTISISG—Persquare often lines, each ,'sl !, 0. Mercnauts and others forall leruis IP? 1 1 „o^ tsJV6r $*45,tweuty-hve per cent.off. legal advertising. , —Citationsior letters of ad- -onguardianship ,<fcc $3 00 V 'lZd notice 2 00 1 . tumiorietters of dism’n fromadm’n 5 00 ^^■'•stioafor letters of dism’u of guard’n 3 50 ••ation for leave to sell Land 5 00 ' to Debtors and Creditors 3 00 N "‘.of Lind. per square of ten lines 5 00 " personal, per sq., ten days 1 50 fs—Each levy of ten lines, or less.. 2 50 a ies of ten lines or less 5 00 00 v< Each levy of ten lines, or less.. V e sales of ten lines or less M ’ : Collector's sales, per sq. (2 months) l Jl .. ’.[.'oreclosure of mortgage and oth- 'lr monthly’s. per square trm y notices,thirty days "■.batesof Respect, Resolutions by Societies, claries, &c. • exceeding 1 00 3 00 f raoo n ' be property ■ , „nries.ot.c., c »— 6 si* fines,to becharged “irausient advertising. *Vyjjalesof Land, by Administrators, Execu- orsor (juardians, are required by law, to be held on the at the Court-house in the county in which erty is situated. duties of these sales must be given in a public * tte 40 days previous to the day of sale ' Not ; c efor the sale of personal property must be ; ‘n inlike manner 10 days previous to sale day. * y 0 .i ce jto debtors and creditors of an estate nit also be published 40 days. \otice that application will be made to the ’ t of Ordinary for leave to sell land, must be L ishel for two months. Citations for letters of Administration, Guar J'^nshi' 1 . Ac.,must be published 30days—for dis- ‘i*. ou frotn Administration, monthly six jnonths , ®‘^missionfrom guardianship, 40 days. Rales for foreclosure of Mortgages must be , ished monthly for four months—for establish* ? T J j J3 , papers,for the full spaceof three months— (•oinoelliufi files from Executors or Adminis- # tors.where bond has been given by the de- r *,ed the full space of three months. Charge, jpH) per square of ten lines for each insertion, ’pl ications will always be continued accord ‘ 0 t bese. the legal requirements, unless otb .raise ordered. CHANGE OF SCHEDULE. f.ESERAL SUPERINTENDENT’S OFFICE, Atlantic * Golf, k. k. company, Savannah, January 7, 1870. O N AND AFTER SUNDAY, the 9th instant, Passenger Trains ou this Road will run as 01 °"' S ‘ NIGHT epxpress train. Leave Savannah every day at 4.30 P M Arrive at Jesup junction, M & B RR at 7.30 P M Arrive at Live Oak every day 2.20 A ^ Arrive at Jacksonville every day ' -02 A M Arrive at Tallahassee every day 7.07 A M Arrive at Quincy every day 9-lu A M Arrive at Bainbridge Mondays ex- cepted 6.15 A M Leave Bainbridge, Sundays excepted.930 P M Leave Quincy every day 6.2o 1 M Leave Tallahassee every day o.xo £ ™ Leave Jacksonville everyday 8 i Leave Live Oak every day l A. M L»ave Jesup every day in to a m Arrive at Savannah every day IO.oO A M MACON & BRUNSWICK ACCOMMODATION TRAIN. Leave Savannah, Sundays except- t> jq p M Arrive at Jesups Sundays except* e j 5.00 P M Arrive at Bruns wick daily at 8.20 P M Leave Macon daily at • -- -8-30 " 5 J Leave Jesup daily at 6.W P M Arrive at Savannah daily at 9.30 P M On Sunday this Train will leave Savannah at 7 15 A. M., connecting with Trains for Macon of Brunswick, and connecting with trains from Ma con and Brunswick will arrive at Savannah at 9.30 P M. DAY TRAIN. Leave Savannah, Sundays except ed at 7.15 A M Arrive at Jesups, Sundays except ed at. — — Arrive at Live Oak, Sundays ex- cepted at. .. 7.00 P M Arrive at Macon duly at Leivo Live Oak, Sundays except- Leave Jesups, Sundays except- Arrive at Savannah .Sundays ex- cepted at - $.35 P M FT Passengers for Macon take7.1o A M train from Savannah, leaving daily. . Passengers for Brunswick take 2.10 P M. train from Savannah. Passengers leaving Macon at 8.30 A M connect at Jesup with express train for Florida and West ern Division, anu with train for Savannah, arriv ing at 9 30 PM. _ , ... Passengers from Brunswick connect at Jesup with train for Savaunah, arriving at 5.3o P M except on Sundays, when it arrives at 9 30 P. M at Jesup w ith Express Train for Savannah, arriving at 1W 50 AM. Connect at Macon with Train for Atlanta, leav- at 9.00 P M. SOUTH GEORGIA &.FLORIDA R- K. TRAIM. h*ave Thomasville Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays at 8.0U , Arrive at Pelham, Tuesdays Thursdays and Sa - nrdavs at 9 55 A “ heave Pelham, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Satur days at 3 4» P M Arrive at Thomasville, Tuesdays, Thursdays and J H. S. HAINES, General Superintendent. Jauuuary 1 1670 3 tf CHANGE OF SCHEDULE. SoUTH*WK8TERN RAILROAD COMPANY, ( Office, Macon, Ga., Jan. 13tn» lc7 . > Fufaula day Passenger and Mail drain. Leave Macon t'on p' M* Arrive atEufaula B . £r Leave Enfaula IfOA.M. Arrive at Macon Sight Freight Sf Accommodation Train. Leave Macon 6:25 P M Arrive at Eufaula 11:00 A M Lear*Eufaula 7:18 P M A.rrire at Macon...« ------- 9; 10 A M Col imhus .10.45 A M 7.00 P M 7.50 P M 6.00 A M 2.16 P M CHANGE OF SCHEDULE. WO CHAXfQB OP CAA8 BE TWEEN SAVANNAH, AU GUSTA AND MONTGOM- EAY, ALABAMA TRANSPORTATION OFFICE, CET. R. R. > Savannah, August 14, 1868. * J 0 N AND AFTER SUNDAY, 16th inst., Pas seuger Trains on the Georgia Central R. R will run as follows : UP DAY TRAIN. leave arrive. Savannah 8:00 A M Miicou 5:38 P M Au ,7 U J sta -- 5:38 P M Milledgeville 8:58 p jj Latouton n.oo P M Connecting with trains that leaves Augusta 8:45 A M DOWN DAY TRAIN. Macon 7 : 00 Savannah 5.30 p Augusta 5CJ8 P Connecting with train that leaves Augusta 8:45 A UP NIGHT TRAIN- Savannah 7:20 P M Ma cou 6:55 A M Augusta 8:13 A M Connecting with trains that leaves Augusta 9:33 p M A DIAMOND ROMANCE. BT MRS. MART J. HOLMES. M DOWN NIGHT TRAIN. Macon 6:25 P M Savannah 5:10 A M Augusta 9:13 A M Milledgeville 4:30 P M Eatonton - 2:40 P M Connecting with train that leaves Augusta 9:53 p M A M Trains <rom Savannah and Augusta, a P M Train from Macou connect with Milledg ville Train at Gordon daily, Sundays excepted. 1* M. Train from Savannah connects with thro' mail train on South Carolina Ksilroad, and P. M. train from Savannah and Augusta with trains on South-Western aud Muscogee Railroads. WM. ROGERS, Act’g Master of Transportation. February 1, 1870 5 if NOTICE. Atlantic & Gulf Railroad Co., » Savannah, December 15, 1869. ) O N AND AFTER THIS DATE, BY AGREE MENT, the rate of Freight between Savau- nan and Macon, by the Atlantic and Gulf and Ma con aud Brunswick Railroads, will be as follows : First class per pound-.--. $2 30 ^Second class per 100 poffcids 1 40 ‘Third class per 100 potmds I 00 Fourth class per 100 pounds 80 Eifth class per 100 pounds 70 Sixth class per 100 pounds 50 Seventh class per 100 pounds 45 Eighth class per 100 pounds -35 Ninth class per 100 pounds.......... ...... 30 Cotton per 100 pounds ......... ; 50 Salt per sack -30 Guano per 100 pounds ... .... J5 Freight received for all Stations on Macon and Western Railroad, Atlanta and points bevond. H. S. HAINES, General Superintendent. February 1, 1879 5 tf Schedule of the Georgia Railroad. SUPERINTENDENT’S OFFICE, ) Georgia Railroad Company, / Augusta, Ga., December 23, ’69. , O N AND AFTER SUNDAY, 26th inst., the Passenger Trains on the Georgia Railroad will run as follows: DAY PASSENGER TRAIN. Leave Augusta at 7.00 AM. “ Atlanta at - 5.00 AM. Arrive at August at .3.45 P M. “ at Atlanta 5.30 P M. NIGHT PASSENGER TRAIN. Leave Augusta at*---- :10.00 P M. “ Atlanta at 5.45 PM. Arrive at Augusta .... .... .3.45 A M. ‘ Atlanta 8.00 A.M. S. K. JOHNSON, Superintendent. January, 18 1870 3 tf Mail Trdn. Leava Macon....................) 7:25 A M Arrive at Columbus.... ....... 1.22 A M Leave Columbus.................. J2sJ5 P M Arrive at Macon . .. -—6:05 P M Columbus Night Freight Sf AC vtfn Train Leave Macon ...: .... -- 'V) P M Arrive at Columbus.... ....... • ■ 1 *Ni A M Leave Coltimhns-... --- -- 7.(\p M Arrive at Macon 4:4l^ M “Albauy Train” connects at Smithvill with Eufaula Trains and Arrive at Albany at 3:1 M and Leaves Albany at 9:35 A M—Regular N|ai 1 ^raiu. . \ Accommodation Train connects three time week. “Fort Gaines Train," connects at Cuthbert Leave Eort Gaines at 7:05 A M and Arrive a Port Gaines 3:40 P M. Accommodation Train connects twice a wees, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. W. S. BRANTLY, And February 1,1170 5 u Schedule Macon & Brunswick R. R January, 7th, 1870 R EGULAR THRO’ PASSENGER TRAINS will commence running on this Road on Sunday, the 9th inst., as follows : Leave Macon at-- -p- 1 ** A Arrive at Brunswick at 10.20 r M. Arrive at Savannah at 10.00 P M. Leave Brunswick — 4.30 A. M. Arrive at Macon 6.15 A. M. TRAINS TO IIAWKINSVILLE. Leave Macon 3.0ft P M. Arrive at Hawkinsville 6-30 A. M. Leave Hawkinsville -7 00 A M. Arrive at Macon 10.25 A M. This train runs daily Sundays excepted. RETURNING : Leave Brunswick at - 8.00 A M. Leave Savannah at 7.15 A M. Arrive at Macon at 7.o0 P M. Trains make direct connections at Jesap, both ways, with trails for Bainbridge, Thomas- the crossing of the Atlantic and Gulf Road, ville and all points on that Road, a* welljas with those for Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and all sta tions on the Florida Roads. Fare to Savannah and Brunswick $ 8 00 Fare to Jacksonville |2 00 Fare to Tallahassee 17 OU Fare to Bainbridge )J uu Fare to New York, Philadelphia or Baltimore, by steamers 27 00 Under recent arrangements made with the At lantic & Gulf Road, freights to and from Savan nah and New York have increased dispatch. The Southern Express Company wil operate on this line to Brunswick, points in Southern Geor gia and in Florida, commencing on Monday, tue 10th instant. R0 BERT SCHMIDT. Master transportation. January 18,1670 3 ^ T. W..WHITER MILLEDGEVILLE, GA., Will practice in this and the adjoining counties. iy Applications for Homestead Exemptions under the new law, and other business before the Court of Ordinary, wili receive proper attention. October 13. 1668 41 « W ANTED.—A Northern man—friendly to the South, and a believer iu the old Jefferso- idea of government—a College graduate, de- res a situation as Teacher in some Southern ite. Satisfactory references furnished^if desired. .ddress, stating terms, “CLASSICS, Publishers’ Box No. 7, Dayton, Ohio »rder Office. jer 19. 1869 » “The boyg muslin’t look at the girls, and the girls must look on their books,” was said at least a dozen times by the village schoolmaster, on that stormy morning when Cora Blanchard and 1—she in her brother’s boots, and 1 in my father’s sock3— waded though drift alter drift of snow to the old brown school house at the foot of the long, steep hill. We were the only girls who had dared to brave that wintry storm, and we felt amply repaid for our trouble when wc saw how much attention we received from the ten tall boys who had come— some for fun—some be cause they saw Cora Blanchard goby, and one Walter Beaumont, because he did not wish to lose the lesson of the day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was fitting him for college, and every mo ment was precious to the white-brow ed intellectual student, who was quite a lion among us girls, partly because he was older, and partly because he never noticed us as much as did the other boys. On this occasion, however he was quite attentive to Cora, at least, pulling off her boots, removing her hood,and brushing the large snowflakes from her soft wavy hair, while her darkbrowm eyes smiled gratefully upon him as he gave her his warm seal by the stove. That morning Cora wrote to me slyly on her slate: 1“ don’t care if mother does say Walter Beaumont is poor as poverty —I like him best of anybody in the world— don’t you?” I thought of the big red apples in my pocket, and of the boy who had so carefully shaken the snow from off my father’s socks, and answered “No”— thinking, the while, that I should say yes, if Walter had ever treated me as he did my playmate and friend, Cora Blanchard. She was a beautiful young girl, a favorite with all, and possessing as it seemed, but one glaring fault—a proneness to estimate people for their wealth rather than£their worth. This, in a measure, was the result of her home training,for her family,though far from being rich, were very aristocratic and strove to keep their children as much as possible from associating with the “vulgar herd,” as they styled the laboring class of the community. In her secret heart Cora had long cher ished a preference for Walter, though never until the morning of which I write, had it been so openly avowed. And Walter loo, while knowing how far above him she was in point of po sition, had dared to dream of a time when a bright-haired woman, with a face much like that of the girlish Cora, would gladden his heme wherever it might be. Thai noon, as we sat around the glowing stove, we played as children will, and it came my turn to “answer truly whom I intended to marry.”— Without a thought of the big apple, the snowy socks, or of any one in par ticular, I replied, unhesitatingly, “The one Hove best,” and the question pass ed on to Cora, who was silting by the side of Walter Beaumont. He had not joined in our sport, but now his eye left his book and rested upon Co ra with an expression half fearful, half expectant. She, too, glanced at him, and as if a spirit of prophecy was up on her, she said : “I shall not marry the one I love the best, but the one who has the most money, and can give me the handsomest diamonds.— Sister Fanny has a magnificent set, and she looks so beautiful when she wears them.” Instantly their fell a shadow on Walter Beaumont’s face, and his eye returned again to the Latin lettered page. But his thoughts was not of what was written there ; he wns think ing of the humble cottage on the bor ders of the wood, of the tag carpet on the oaken floor, of the plain, old-fash ioned furniture, and of the gentle lov ing woman who called him “her boy,” and that spot her home. There were no diamonds there—no money—and Cora, if for these she married, would never be his wife. Early and late he toiled and studied, wearing his threadbare coat and coarse brown pants—for an education, such as he must have, admitted of no use less expenditure, and the costly gems which Cora craved were not his to give. In, the purejunselfish love spring ing up for him within his heart, there were diamonds of imperishable value, and these, with the name he would make for himself, he would offer her, but nothing more ; and for many weeks there was a shadow on his brow, tho’ he was kind and considerate to her as of old. As the spring and summer glided by, however, there came a change, and when, in the autumn, he left our village for New Haven, there was a happy, joyous look upon his face,while a tress of Cora’s silken hair was lying next his heart. Every week he wrote to her, and Cora answered, always showing to me what she had written, but never a word of bis. “There was too much love, she said, “too much good advice in his letters for me to see,” and thus the time passed on, un til Walter, who had entered the senior class, was graduated with honor, and was about to commence a theological course at Andover, for he had made the ministry his choice. He was twen ty-one now, and Cora was sixteen.— Wondrously beautiful was she to look upon, with her fair young face, her soft brown eyes, and wavy hair. And Walter Beaumont loved her devotedly believing, too, that she in turn loved him ; for one summer afternoon, in the green old woods which skirled the lit tle village, she had sat by his side,and with the sunbeams glancing down up on her through the overhanging boughs she had told him so, and promised to be his wife. Still, she would not hear of a positive engagement, both should be free to change their mind if they wished, she said, and with this Walter was satisfied. “I have no diamonds to give you darling,” said he drawing her clo.^e to him and Cora, knowing to what he re ferred answered, that “his love was dearer to her than all the world be sides.” Alas, that woman should be so fickle. The same train which carried Wal ter away brought Mrs. Blanchard letter from her daughter, a dashing fashionable woman, who lived in the city, and who wished to bring her sis ter Cora “out” the coming winter. “She is old enough now,” she wrote, “to be looking for a husband, and of course she’ll never do anything in that by place.” This proposition which accorded ex actly with Mrs. Blanchard’s wishes, was joyfully acceded to by Cora, who while anticipating the pleasure which awaited her, had yet no thought of proving false to Walter, and in the let ter which she wrote to him informing him of her plan, she assured him ol her unchanging fidelity, little dream ing that the promise thus made would be so soon broken. Petted, caressed, flattered and admired, as she was in the circle of her sister’s friends, how could she help growing worldly and wain, or avoid contrasting the plain, unassuming Walter with the polished and gaily dressed butterflies who thronged Mrs. Burton’s drawing room. When the summer came again, she did not return to us as we had expected but we heard of her at Saratoga and Newport, the admired of all admirers ; while one, it was said, a man of higli position and untold wealth, bid fair to win the beautious belle. Meantime her letters to Walter grew short and far between, ceasing at length alto gether; and one day, during the sec ond winter of her residence in the city 1 received a package from her con taining his minature, the books he had given her, and the letters he had writ ten. These she wished me to give him when I next saw him, bidding me tell him to think no more of one who was not worthy of him. “To be plain, Lottie,” she wrote, “I’m engaged, and though Mr. Doug lass is not a bit like Walter, he has a great deal of money, drives splendid horses, and 1 reckon we shall get on well enough. I wish, though he was not quite so old. You will be shocked to hear that he is almost fiby, though he looks about forty. I know I don’t like, him as I did Waller, but, after seeing as much of the world as I have, I could not settle down into the wife of a poor minister. I am not good enough and you must tell him so. I hope he will not feel badly—poor Walter. I June, was to be ordained in the old brick church,before whose altar he had years ago been baptized, a smiling in fant. On the Thursday afternoon pre ceding the ordination, a large travel ing carriage, covered with dust and ladened with trunks, passed slowly through our village, attracting much attention. Seated within it, was a portly, gray-haired man, resting his chin upon a gold-headed cane, and looking curiously out at the people in the street, who stared as curiously at him. Directly opposite him, and lan guidly reclining upou the soft cushnns, was a white, proud-faced lady, who ev idently felt no interest in what was passing aiound her, for her eyes were cast down, and her thoughts seemed busy elsewhere. I was sitting at my chamber window, gazing out upon them, and just as they drew near the gale, the lady raised fipr eyes—the soft brown eyes whice had once won the love of Walter Beaumont,and in which there was now an unmistakable look of anguish, as if the long eyelashes, drooping so wearily upon the color less cheeks, were constantly forcing back the hidden tears. And this was Cora Douglass come back to us again from her travels in a foreign land!— She knew me in a moment, and in her face there was much of her olden look, have kept the lock of his hair. I could not part with that; bui, of course, Mr. Douglass will never see it. His hair is gray ! Good by ” This was what she wrote, and when I heard from her again, she was Cora Douglass, and her feet were treading the shores of the Old World, whither she had gone on a bridal tour. In the solitude of his chamber, the young.man learned the sad news from a paragraph in a city paper, and bow ing his head upon the table, he strove to articulate “It is well,” but the flesh was weak, warring with the spirit,and the heart which Cora Blanchard had cruelly trampled down, clung to her still with a death-like fondness, and, toilowing her even across the waste of waters, cried out, “How can I give her up »” But when be remembered, as he ere long did, that ’twas a sin to love her now, he burried his face in his hands, and, calling God to help him in this, his hour of need, wept such tears as would never again tall for Cora Blanchard. The roses in our garden were faded and the leaves of autumn were piled upon the ground ere he came to his home again, and I had an opportunity of presenting him with the package which many months before had been committed to my care. Hi9 face was very pale, and his voice trembled as he asked me, “Where is she now ?” ‘tin Italy,” I answered ; adding that her husband was said to be quite weal thy. Bowing mechanically, he walked away, and a year and a half went by ere 1 saw him again. Then he came among us as our minister. The old white-haired pastor, who for so long had told us of the Good Shepherd and the better land, was sleeping at last in tha quiet grave-yard, and the people had chosen young Walter Beaumont to fill his place. He was a splendid lookingman—tail, erect, and finely formed, with a most winning manner, and a face which betokened intellect of the highest order. We were proud of him, all of us—proud of our clergy man, who, on the third Sabbath in as, bending forward, she smiled greeting, and waved toward me her white, jeweled hand, on which the dia monds flashed brightly in the sun light. The next morning we met, but not in the presence of the old man, her hus band. Down in the leafy woods, about a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Beau mont’s cottage, was a running brook and a mossy hank, overshadowed by the syeaniore and elm. This, in the days gone by, had been our favorite re sort. Here had we built our play house, washing our bits of china in the rippling stream—here had we watch ed the little fishes as they darted in and out of the deeper eddies—here had we conned our daily tasks—here had she lisiened to a tale of love, the mem ory only a mocking dream, and here,as I faintly hoped, I found her. With a half joyful half moaning cry, she threw her arms around my neck, and I could feel her tears dropping upon my face as she whispered, “Oh, Lottie, Lottie, we have met again by the dear pld brook.” For a few moments she sobbed as fher heart would break; then sud- lenly drying her tears, she assumed a calm, cold, dignified manner, such as I had never seen in Cora Blanchard.— Very composedly she questioned me of what I had done during her ab sence, telling me, too, of her travels, of the people she had seen and the places she had visited, but never a word of hitn she called her husbaud. From the bank where we sat the vil lage grave-yard was discernible, with its marble gleaming through the trees^ and at last as her eye wandered in that direction, she said : “Have any of our villagers died ? Mothers letters were never very definite.” “Yes, I answered, “our minister Mr. Sumner, died two months ago.” “Who takes his place ?” she asked ; and, as if a suspicion of the truth were flashing upon her, her eyes turned to ward me with an eager, startled glance. “Waller Beaumont, he is to lie or dained next Sabbath and you are just in time,” I replied,regretting my words the next instant ; foi never saw I so fearful a lool> of anguish as that which swept over her tace, and was succeed ed by a cold, hard, defiant expression, scarcely less painful to witness. She would have questioned me of him, I think, had not an approaching footstep caught our ear,sending a crim son flush to Cora’s hitherto marble cheek, and producing on me a most unpleasant sensation, for 1 knew the gray-haired man within a few paces of us, was he who called that young creature his wife. Golden was that chain by which he had hound her,and every link was set with diamonds and costly stones, but it had rusted and eat en to her very hearts core, for the most precious gem of all was missing from that chain—love for her husband, who, fortunately for his own peace of mind, was too conceited to dream how little she cared for him. He was not hand some, and still many would have call ed him a fine-looking middle aged man, though there was something disagreea ble in his thin, compressed lips, and intensely black eyes—the one betoken ing a violent temper, and the other an indomitable will. To me he was ex ceedingly polite—rather too much so for my perfect ease, while toward Co ra he tried to be very affectionate. Seating himself at her side, and throwing his arm around her, he called her a “little truant,” and asked “why she had run away from him ?” Half pettishly she answered, “Be cause, I like sometimes to be alone;” then, rising up ard turning toward me she asked if “the water still ran over the old mill-dam in the west woods the village. Scarcely, was he out of sight, however, when, seating herself beneath a tree, and throwing herselt flat upon the ground, Cora announc ed her intention of not going any fur ther. “I only wished to be alone. I breathe so much better,” she said, aod when I looked inquiringly at her, she contin ued, “Never marry a man for his wealth, Lottie, unless you wish to be come as hard, as wicked and unhappy as I am. John Douglass is worth more than half a million, and yet 1 could give it all if I was the same little girl, who, six years ago, waded with you through the snow-drifts to school on that stormy day. Do you remember what we played that noon, and my foolish re mark that 1 would marry for money and diamonds? Woe is me. I’ve won them both and her tears fell fast on the sparkling gems which covered her fingers. Just then I saw in the distance a young man whom I knew to be Wal ter Beaumont. He seemed to be ap proaching us, and when Cora became aware of that, she started up, and grasping my arm, hurried away, say ing, as she cast back a fearful glance, “I would rather die than meet him now. I am not prepared.” For tha remainder of the way we walked on in silence, until we reached her mother’s gate, where we found her husband waiting for her. Bidding me good morning, she followed him slowly up the graveled walk, and I saw her no more until the following Sabbath. It was a gloriously beautiful summer morning, and at an early hour the old brick church was filled to overflowing, for Walter had many friends, and they came together gladly to see him made a minister of God. During the first part of the service he was very pale, and his eye wandered often to ward the large, square pew, where sat a portly man, and a beautiful voung woman, richly attired in satin and jew els. It had cost her a struggle to be there, but she felt that she must look again on one whom she bad loved so much and so deeply wronged. So she ame, and the sight of him standing there in his early manhood, bis soft brown hair clustering about his brow, and his calm pale face wearing an ex pression almost angelic, was more than she could bear, and leaning forward she kept her countenance concealed from view until the ceremony was en ded and Walter’s clear musical voice announced the closing hymn. Then she raised her head, and her face- seen through the folds of her costly veil, looked haggard and ghastly, as if a fierce storm of passion had swept over her. By the door she paused, and when the newly-ordained clergy man passed out, she offered him her hand—the hand which he held it last, was pledged to him. There ware dia monds on it now—diamonds of rare value, but their brightness was hateful to that wretched woman, for she knew at what a fearful price they had been bought. “Will Walter Beaumont marry Co ra now just as it used to do,” saying if it did she wished to see it. “You can’t go,” she continued, addressing her husband, “for it is more than a mile, over fences and plowed fields.” This was sufficient, for Mr. Douglass was very fastidious in all matters per taining to his dress, and had no fancy tor soiling his white pants or patent leathers. So Cora and I setoff togeth er, while he walked slowly back to I had asked myself many a time, without, however, arriving at any def inite conclusion, when a little more than a year succeeding Mr. Douglass* death, she wrote, begging me to come to her, as she was very lonely, and the presence of an old friend would do her good. 1 complied with her request, and within a few days was an inmate of her luxurious home, where every thing indicated the wealth of its pos sessor. And Cora, though robed in deepest black, was more like herself more like the Cora of other days, than 1 had seen her before since her mar riage. Of her husband she spoke free ly and always with respect, saying he had been kinder far to her than she had deserved. Of Walter, too, she talked appearing much gratified when I told her how he was loved and ap preciated by his people. One morning when we sat together in her little sewing room-, she said, have done what you perhaps, will con sider a verv unwomanly act, I have written to Walter Beaumont, Look —andahe placed in my hand a latter which she bade me read. It was a wild, strange thing, telling him of the anguish she had endured, of the tears she had shed, of the love which through all she had cherished tor him and beg- ging him to forgive her if possible, and be to her again what he had been years ago. She was not worthy of him, she said, but be could make her belter, and in language the most tonching she be sought of him not tn cast her off or despise her because she had stepped so far a side from womanly delicacy as to write to him this letter. “I will not insult you,” she wrote in conclu sion, “by telling you of the money for which l sold myself, but it is mine aow lawfully mine, and most gladly would I share it with you.” “You will not send him this^?” 1 said, “You cannot be in earnest!” But she was determined, and lest her resolution should give way, she rang I lie bell, ordering the servant who appeared to take it at once to the office. He obeyed, and during the 1 day she was unusually gay, singing snatches of old songs, and playing sev eral lively airs upon her piano, which, for months had stood unopened and untouched. That evening, as the sun went-down, and the full moon over the city, she asked me to walk with her, and we, ere long, found our selves several streets distant trom that in which she lived. Groups of people were entering a church near by, and from a remark which we overheard, we learned that there was to boa wed ding. “Let us go in,” she said, “it may be some one I know.” And entering together, we took our seats just in front of the altar. Scarcely were we seated when a rustling of satin announced the ap proach of the bridal party, and in a moment they appeared moving slowly up the aisle. My first attention was directed toward the bride, a beautiful young creature, with a fair, sweet face and curls of golden hair falling oyer her white, uncovered neck. " 4,1 “Isn’t she lovely?” I whispered ;— but Cora did not hear me. With her hands locketl. tightly to gether, her lips firmly compressed, and her cheeks of an ashen nue, she was gazing fixedly at the bridegroom, on whom I, too, now looked, starting quickly, for it was our minister, Walt er Beaumont! The words w$re few which made them one, Waiter and the young girl at his side, and when the ceremony was over, Cora arose, and leaning heavily upon my arm, went out into the open air, and on through street after street, until her home was reached. Then, without a word, we parted—I going to my room, while she, through the livelong night, paced up and down the long parlors where no eye could witness the working of the mighty sorrow which had come up on her. The next morning she was calm, but very, very pale, saying not a word of last night’s adventure. Neither did she speak of it for several days, and then she said, rather abruptly, “I would give all I possess if I bad never sent that letter. The mortification is harder to bear even than Walter’s loss. But he will not tell of it, f’m sure.— He is loo good—too noble,” and tears the firSt she had shed since that, night, rained through her thin,white fingers. It came at last—a letter bearing Wal ter’s superscription, and with tremb ling hands she opened it, finding, &s she bad expected, bis wedding card, while on a tiny sheet was written, “God pity you, Cora, even as I do.-*- WALTER.” “Walter ! Walter !” she whisper ed, and her quivering lips touched once the loved name which she .was never heard to breath again. Fiom that day Cora Douglass faded and when the autumnal days were come, and the distant hills were bath ed in the hazy October light, she died.. But not in the noisy city, for she tia’d asked to be taken home, and in the pleasant room where, we had olten sat together, she bade me her last good- by. They buried her on the Sabbath, and Walter’s voice was sad and low as with Cora’s coffin at his feet he preached from the words, “I .am the Resurrection and the Life.” His young wife, too, wept over the early dead, >xbo had well nigh been her rival, and whose beautiful face wore a calm, peaceful smile, as if she were at rest. There was a will, they satd^and in it Walter was generously remembered while to his wife was given an ivory box, containing Cora’s diamonds,* neck lace—bracelets, pin and ear-rings— all were there, and Walter, as he look ed upon them, drew nearer to him liis fair girl-wife, who, but for these, might not, per chance, have been to bias what she was—his dearest earthly treasure. Out Door Expbrikncb.—It i§ owing mainly to their delight in out door exer cise that the elevated clases in England reach a patriarchal age, notwithstand ing their habits of high living, of wine drinking, and many other health-dea-. troyiag agencies; the death of thrip generals, therr lords, their earls, aqd (heir dukes are chronicled almost ev^ry week, at seventy, eighty and hiobty years; it is because they wid be" on horseback, the mosi elegant, rational 5 and accomplished of all forms pf-mecw exercise, both for sons and daughter*. But the whole credit of longevjiy^p. these classes must not .be given.to tbqir love of field sports ; it must be divided 1 with the other not less characteristic trails of any English nobleman—he wili* take the world easy, and could we as a people, persuade ourselves to do the ime thing, habitually, it would add tea years to the average of human hie, and save many a broken fortune and brok* en constitution.”—Journal of Health.- A man in Kansas City, Missouri, pays his wife s regular salary of four dollars par wash ts.keap her month shut. Every 4 * time she apeaks to hiai, except when ab- ' •oletely necessary, bs “docks” her one. cent a word. Joha Condors, a mild-spoken citisen of Janesville, Wisconsin, believes that wires will not ba dutiful unless they are oeca- sionally whipped. To such an extent, has be carried oot the idea upon his owin'* wife, that the poor woman recently thre# herself int# a cistern three times in suc cession to destroy ber life. >r The proprietors of the watenng- place hotels are footing up the profits of the season. Cape May did very,. weR for them. The Stockton cleared &60g- f 000; Congress Hall, i-50,b00; the Columbia, $5,000, and so on. fivetyc. body made money.