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■ i ****^*^^ l > /l ^*^*^^*^****^********r rs i-ff rs i-f rs ff f< - X f / xyfjyrrj .. .... ‘ VOLUME 11. | BY C. B. HANLEITER. F> © E r K Y„ GOOD NIGHT. Good night to nil the world ! there’* none, Beneath the “ over-going” sun, To whom I feel or hate or spite-’ And so to all a fair good night! Would I could say good night to pnin, Good night to oonsoience and her train, To cheerless poverty, nnd shame That I am yet unknown to fame ! Would I could say good night to dreams, That haunt me with delusive gleams, That through the sable future's veil Like meteors glimmer, but to fail! Would I could say a long good night To halting between wrong and right, And, tike a giant with new force, Awake prepared to run my course ! But Time o’er goqd and ill sweeps on. And when few years arc come and gone. The ptsl will he to me as naught, Wlieilier remembered or forgot. Yet let me hope one faithful friend O'er my last couch shall tearful bend; And,though no day for me was bright, Shall bid me then a Jong good night! ;i ! 1 1 TALE®. THE WIFE. BV MRS. ANN 8. STEPHEN'S. Like ivy, woman’s love will cling Too often round a worthless thing. It was midnight in London, (lie theatres were closed, the houseless wanderer sought the dark alley which had sheltered his wretchedness many a miserable night, and lay crouching to the wall as the watchman paced heavily hy, least he might he drag ged forth from his hilling place and deprived of hi* sole remaining possession, personal liberty. Laboring men and honest trades people had been long asleep, thes'de walks were deserted, save by !he midnight revel er, the ahject and the vicious, but through the fa*lii,nabl<* thoumgkfurag nan-iagp uti-* , cuniaae, laden with manly and beautiful life, swept by, their splendor hut half revael od by the blaze of the enameled lamps they carried. A fashionable bouse in the West End was thrown open to the distinguished of London that night, and, long after the street lamps had burned themselves out, lordly equipages rolled to and from the illumina ted mansion. The rainbow light that stream ed through the drapery of each tall window bad fallen on many a beautiful foim gliding up those steps, hut in no instance had it touched a being mote lovely than the fair young girl who paused with modest grace to gather up her scarf before she followed her companion, an elderly lady, through the lyhrinth of statues that lined the btoad stair-case. She reached the drawing-room ; music was swelling through the glittering crowd assembled there—the strains of a light cheer ful waltz. A glow rushed over her cheek, and the folds of azure gauze that covered Iter bosom rose and fell with its pleasant throbbing, till the sprig of white jasmine that gathered them at the throat trembled as if shaken by the night wind. Lucy Sprague was seventeen, and this was her first hall, the first time that she had ever stood an equal in the gay throng. It seemed like enchantment to her, the glitter of diamonds, the swelling music.and the crowd of breath ing life, bathed in that glowing lamp-light. It was no marvel that her bosom heaved and her soft eye sparkled as she gazed up or. it. As Lucy Sprague, the orphan heiress, had descended from hercarriage, two young men were crossing the street, arm in arm. They had just come from a neighboring club house, and, if the light had been suf ficient, an obseiver might have detected the glow of wine on their cheeks, and a sparkle of the eye which betrayed excitement if not confirmed inebriety. One of them, a dark haired young man, with midnight eyes and features such as one dreams of for a revel ing poet, uttered an exclamation of delight as his observation was drawn to the your.g heiress, and springing forward he. stood in tho shadow, giasping his companion.s aim, nnd with bis eyes riveted on the girl till she disappeared from the stair-case. •• Come! fortunately 1 have an invitation,” he said, forcing his companion toward the door. •• Surely you will not attempt it; remem ber the wine you have taken. You are al ready half intoxicated.” ‘• With the beauty of that girl, boy, not with wine—come !“ “ No ; if you wish to present yourself to the countess in this condition, 1 will be no party to the outrage; why man, that hair is falling over your forehead like an unpruned grape vine.” ” Confound such comparison! “Vou can think ot nothing but grapes and the blood of grapes. I tell you the sight of that heav enly girl has rendered me sober as a cardi nal,” and as he spoke the young man dash ed back the raven curls that had, in truth, ol most concealed his forehead, gave them a twist from the temples with his hand, and turned with a laugh to his friend. “ There, will that do ? Am I sufficiently presentable 1” “As you will be to night,” replied the ft iFawUg Jlctospaper : ©rfcotetr to mtrraturc, ftflrtcultuve, Jttccfianico, Ktmcattou, jForeiflu autr ©omeetic HutrUf&encr, scc. more reasonable companion, smiling in spite of himself, for there was something so spir ited in the handsome face turned toward him, so frank and determined, that he saw no hopes in contending against his project of enteiing the house, and could only resolve not to bear him company. “ So you will not go ?” “ Most assuredly I will not!” “ Good night, then—breakfast with me to-morrow, and I will tell you all about her.” “Good night.” They shook hands. The next minute young Burke was ascending the stair-case of that palace dwelling, composedly as if it had been his own home. He urged his way through the crowd, and reached the dancing room. The object of his search was there, sitting by the tall Imly who had entered the house with her. Burke took a position directly opnsite the window they occupied. Many a smiling look fell on him from the dancers as they whirled by ; eyes brighter than the diamonds that flash above them were turned upon him from the crowd ed walls, for Burke was the fashion.— Though a younger son, wild, impulsive, and prodigal, his great personal beauty, his ac complishments, and the fascination of his address, rendered him a favorite even among the elder ladies, who could not make up their minds to discountenance him altogeth er, though terrified every day of their lives lest he might persuade some of their aris tocratic daughters to throw themselves away and share his extravagance and pov erty, or redeem him from the latter. “ Hay, Burke, are you here playing the wallflower ?” said a young guatdsman, as he turned from escorting his partner to a seat. “ How is it that I have not seen you among the daucets ?” Burke muttered some vague answer to this address, and did not seem inclined to become more sociable. The guardsman was passing on, but that instant lie caught a glimps of Lucy Sprague, where she sat half concealed by her protectress. An expres sion of pleasant surprise came over his face, and, after convincing himself hy a quick elunce that it was impossible to cross the room, he bowed. Burk was looking at tbe young girl; he saw the smile accompanied by a gentle bend of the head with which she acknowledged his frind’s recognition, and turned eagerly toward him. “ Uo yon know the lady ?” he said. “Know her? of course I do; how beau tiful she lias grown ! Shall I present you?” “ Certainly.” The guardsman looked up. It was not usual that the fastidious young man before him permitted an introduction, now lie seemed eager for it. “ But you must dance, I can see hy her face that she is dying for a partner —unfor- tunately I am engaged.” “ With all my heart,” replied Burke; “but who is she ?” “ An orphan of good descent, and heiress to a neat fortune. Stewart, the great hank er, is her guardian and that is his wife, sir. How her diamonds light up the beauty of my own sweet friend us 6he leans over her! There is no fear of losing cast in that quar ter, she will set half the town crazy in a month.” When the next quadrille struck up, Lucy Sprague stood in the circle with young Burke; her small feet tremblingto the music as she waited her turn to dance, and her cheek glowing with blushes called forth from the admiring eyes that fell upon her from every direction, now that her beauty was rendered very conspicious by the atten tion of a partner so distinguished. The dance was over and Burke still lin gered hy the side of his partner; the wine which he had drank, the brilliant beauty that he gazed upon, music and the volup tuous breath of flowers, all served to excite his wondrous powers of pleasing. The warm, wild poetry of his natutc was arous ed, it burned upon his lips, and gave ex piession to his eyes. The young girl lis tened, and it was enough. The ticli tones of that voice seldom found their way to a bcait which was not subdued hy their elo quence and earnestness, for though way ward and dissipated, Burke was always sin cere. His faults were the more dangerous that there was a dash of chivalry and much that was noble always mingled with them. “ Shall we dance again,” lie murmured, “or would you prefer the air of this balco ny, it overlooks the garden.” “ The balcony,” she said, with girlish eagerness, then checking herself she added, blushing, “the heat is oppressive here.” Burke lifted the mass of crimson drapery that fell behind the seat they occupied, and, flinging open a sash, the young pair step ped forth to a full view of the moonlight garden, its shrubbery and the flowers thut greeted them with their gentle breath. The music came softly from within, and all around lay the quiet moonlight. It was a dangerous hour for the heart of that guile less creature —dangerous for them both, for with him love was salvation, or injustice —with her, life or death ; she was a woman, and to her love was but the beginning of im mortality. Lucy Sprague was alone in her chamber, her palm yet warm with the clasp of her partner’s hand when he had whispered “good night” at the cariage door. There was music hovering about her senses—not that which had made her feet tremble on MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 28, 1843. the chalked floor with child-like eagerness for the dance, hut the heart thrilling music of a human voice—his voice who bed con versed with her in the balcony. When she sunk to sleep that night a smile lay upon those lips as she dreamed ; it broke over her whole face like sunlight on a magnolia flower. It was a dream, a wild sweet vis ion, and when the sunshine stole through the cur tains of her hed-chamber, the young girl awoke smiling, and with a blush on her cheek, a blush brought there by the memo ry of visions that had haunted her slumber —visions of a village church with their strong light shut out by creeping ivy, and two persons kneeling together in the holv calm thus created. She arose and hurried on her diess,for it seemed late and she was not certain at what hour young Burke would call. “ Lady, Mr. Stewart desires your pres ence in the library.” Lucy bent her head to the footman who had delivered his message, and he turned away without observing the pallor whirh it brought to her face. She arose, put aside the drawing she had been employed upon, and made several other self-deluding excu ses for remaining in the room, though her hand trembled more and more every object she touched, and her face became absolute ly pale with apptehension. At length, she made a despeiate effort and went down, more nervous and unpleasantly agitated than she had ever been iti the whole course of her life. Mr. Stewart was a grave, gen tlemanly person, who had outlived every thing like impulsive feeling years before he became the guardian of that orphan girl.— She came to him blushing as if she had done something to be ashamed of. The banker received his ward conrleously as ever, though an anxious and stern expres sion lowered on his forehead, and sat evi dently pondering some unpleasant subject in his mind. She knew what it was, and placed herself in the daikest corner of the loom, musteiing what courage she might for an interview which under any circum stances would have been embarrassing, and w as now pecunaity so. For sotne moments the man of business sat in his easy-chair looking askance at the changing features of his ward, while he toyed with the pages of a volume which lay on a table where his right hand rested, ev idently wishing to seem occupied with it alone. “ I wish to converse with you, Miss Sprague, on a subject which is far from a pleasant one to me at least. Mr. Burke lias just left me.” He paused as if expecting some reply, hut Lucy sat with her eyes fixed on the car pet, and hut for the mutations of her cheek might not have seemed conscious of his ad dress. “ Your silence convinces me of what I before suspected,” he ssid, more quickly, “ that the young spendthrift was not author ized by you to make the assertion which lie did make.” Lucy looked up now, and the color star tled to a red crimson on her cheek. “Mr. Bmke had my permission to speak with you,” she said with gentle firmness ; “my full permission; you would not have been troubled else.” The banker turned in his chair and look ed keenly in her face. “It pains me to hear it,” he said, “for I can never consent to a union which must bring you to certain poverty, pet haps to a worse fate” Lucy turned pale, but met his eyes firmly, as one who had made up her mind and was not capable of abandoning a position once resolved on. The hanker arose, sat down on the fatcvil she occupied, and took her hand with a degree of parental kindness never exhibited to her before, “ Let me entreat you,” he said, “recon sider this matter ; you cannot know the character ol this young man.” “ I knnvf it hettei than his detractors ; he acknowledges Ills faults, he conceals noth ing,” said the young girl, gaining power of voice and confidence with each word ; “you judge him harshly, sir.” “ 1 judge him as the world judges, with the expeiieneeof sixty years to aid my ob servation. 1 know that he will never become a good man, or a kind husband to any rea sonable woman, much less to one beautiful, wurm-hearted and gently nurtured as you have been.” Lucy felt the tears start to her eyes, for some paits of the banker’s speech had brought to her mind the memory of those who had indeed nurtured her infancy with such affection as young parents sometimes weave about an only child. She fell how beautiful a feeling domestic love was ; how much of heaven might be gathered under our roof, and these reflections did not aid the banker in his attempt to dissuade her from the heart-dream which had in truth be wildered her better judgement. “ He is poor and extravagaut,” presisted the banker, mistaking the source of her emotion. “ I have money enough for both ; his fine taste need not be thwarted,” was the gen erous reply. The hanker pressed lils lips together, for her firmness disturbed even his philoso phy. ** A wine drinker, a heartless profligate u> every thing.” “Nj, heartless he is not —it is unjust, cruel, he does not deserve it—if he weie all this, 1 have one firm defence to make for what I intend to do !” she broke off and her cheek became ciimson beneath the tears that flowed over it. “ May I inquire what that reason is ?” said the banker. “ 1 love him !” “ And are doubtless persuaded that he seeks you from love in teturn, and not for the thousands left hy your father.” There was a touch of sarcasm in the bank er’s voice, and it fell harshly on the snug gling heart of his ward. “ I know that he loves me for myself alone. T am as certain of it ns lhat my pulse beats, or my voice is now filling your ear—-I want no belter proof than beats in my own bosom —heart answers to heart in this !” There W'as something beautiful in the confidence which filled that young heait— beautiful but dangerous ; for a moment the coltl eye of her guardian lighted up with ad miration, but heßaw the precipice on which she was standing, and proved how deeply his inteiest was enlisted in her welfare by the trouble which he took to diag her away. “ I cannot consent to this sacrifice— will not consent.” “ I grieve that this is yourdetermination,” said Lucy, with meak dignity, “butmyword —my soul is pledged, 1 cannot war forever against his pleading and my own heart.— He has faults—l acknowledge he has—no one can admit that moie frankly than himself, but he will amend them. You do not know how warm and true his nature is!” The banker shook his head. “ Let it be so, then,” she added, smiling through her tears, “ I can love him spite of his faults.” “ This is sheer infatuation,” muttered the hanker, pacing up and down the library af ter his ward had left him, “but if she will fling herself away I am exonerated—there is no legal power by which it can be preven ted. That dream was accomplished in the estate.’ that dangerous man. The good pastor who had held her at the baptismal fount pronoun ced the words of union, but his voice broke and he looked compassionately on the young cirature kneeling at his feet, as if the task w hich he was performing was painful to his goou heart. The ivy that crept over the lit tle porch, and the tall windows were filled with a dirge-like wind, and the tablet sutik in the wall to her parents seemed like a scroll written over with reproaches. She stood up, with the golden ciiclet on her finger, lire veil of Mechlin lace swept to her feet, and the peails on her neck lay mo tionless in the dim light. But when the bridegroom pressed his lips upon her hand and whispered a few words unheared by the rest—the pearls heaved upon the rosy swell of her throat, a happy blush shone through the gossamer veil, and when she went forth, when the hells pealed a welcome and chil dren scattered a carpet of blossoms under her feet from the church dooi to the car riage; when the horses crushed them as they dashed off, a happier bride could never have breathed than Lucy Burke. And if love— true, warm-hearted, ill-regulated love —could render a heart happy hers might well be so; for if ever a human being doted on another, with the whole strength of his manhood, that being was Thomas Burke.- She did him no move than justice there; his thoughts were all on the young and love ly woman he had w edded ; not on her pos sessions—possessions which had now be come his own, save a trifling settlement pre pared without her knowledge hy the guar dian, and signed unread hy the husband. No, no, Thomas Burke cared nothing for the money ; it would have been better, per haps, if he had indeed possessed more of the mercenary character imputed to him. “My wife—my own sweet wife !’’ How stiongly though musical the words fell up on her ear—how full of brooding tender ness were the soft eyes that dared not look upon the face of llat manly made husband —so young, so gloriously beautiful—turned upon her with all that wealth of tenderness beaming through ! They sat in silence, for the full tranquility which brooded in theii hearts was unfitted for any eflbrt at conver sation, save the fragmentary symbols so gently endearing which now nnd then broke from ihe lips as with linked hands llie hus band nnd wife looked forth ou the'dewy morning together. How changed every thing seems here,” murmured the bride : “ 1 did not know that our own home was so full of pleasant ob jects ; the garden smiles like an Eden this morning.” “It is an Eden, and here,” said the young husband, kissing the forehead uplifted to his face, “ here is my Eve—Adam never fell for one more lovely.” “ But may not the tempter creep in ?” It was a vague question, brought on by thoughts of her guardian’s caution, nnd Lu cy repented having spoken it before the words had left her lips, but he only kissed her again, nnd observed, ” Not while we love each other thus.” They went into the house together, and sat down to breakfast, happy and confident in the future. A year went by, Lucy Butke was in town once more, the most flattered beauty of a season. Her husband, too, was there ; thoughtful manhood and happiness, pure and deep, had given new dignity to his per son and a more finished grace In his manner. No man about town was more popular.— There was none who gave such suppers, or entertained his friends so lavishly. His es tablishment was kept up on the most ex- Censive scale ; his horses were unrivalled, is equipage remarkable for its costliness, its splendor and the exquisite taste which even in magnificence avoided gotgeousness. Lucy’s fortune had not been enormous at first, though fully sufficient for splendor and occasional piodigalitv, but the style kept up in her home was princely, and could only have been warranted by the most abundant supply of money. Still the generous wo man was happy; she knew herself to have been rich, and with no idea of the relative value of money and that which it purchases, never dreamed that her possessions were melting away like snow in llie warm sun shine. She was flattered in the world, fol lowed after and caressed to a degree that could not fail to excite her self love, espe cially as she sow it gratified her husband. He was still toberlhe first and dearest ob ject in existence ; no music came to her ear so sweetly ns his footfall on the stairs, when she could retire to her dressing-room and think of him in peace ; no sight gladden her eye so surely as a glimpse of his fine pet son as she rode through the Paik or pass ed him in her carriage while standing on club-house steps. Amid all her triumphs, all her splendor, the well spring of her young heart was kept pine and free. The little hour spent with her husband over the break fast table, in her pretty morning-gown and her delicate, face shaded by a deeply bor dered cap of cosily lace, was the most pre cious hour of the twenty-four to her. She hud not yet repented the choice she had made, and wrote her guaidian so. And Thomas Burke, was he changed in his love of that generous woman ? No, no—changed lie might he, hut not in his love for liet—there lie kept firm, though his old habits were crcepiner iusiduimsiv ■ ru\ r% O | ..... •** --*•— -“■ -- -’- ~* meltit.g from his heart beneath the influ ence of a town life and old associations. At length ihis alteiation in his habits forced ilself on the attention of his wife. A shadow fell upon her heart, and occasion ally her sweet face took a care-worn ex pression ; but with the anxiety came a strength and fervency of affection unknown in her heart before. She kept her pledge and did most truly love him in spite of hi? faults. Lucy was silting alone in her dressing mom one night—for she never allowed her self to retire until he returned home —she had taken a bonk and turned its leaves somewhat nervously, for hour after hour was wearing away and still he came not. At length, toward daylight, there came a double knock at the street door, which arous ed the beautiful watcher, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cheek nestled against the swansdown that lined her dress ing robe. She started up—a pleasant smile stole to her before drowsy eyes, and she hastened to hear the porter unclose the door. He was too sound asleep in his leathern chair, and when tbe knock was again re peated Lucy girded the dressing gown a round her waist with a silken cord which be longed to the festal garments she had just flung off, and taking a lamp hurried down stair®. She opened the door and there stood her hiishutul flushed with wine ; his hat ofl and the masses of raven hair falling over his brow damp and disheveled. He stoop ed unsteadily, and mode a random eflbrt to rescue his beaver from the ground. Lucy shrunk back, and every vestige of color left her face ; he came into the ball, stumbling as be walked, holding out his bend to greet her with a vague smile which seemed fear fully out of place on those soulless features. Lucv glanced hurriedly toward tbe por ter’s chair. The occupant was sound asleep, breathing deep end full, like a man detcimined on his entire measure ot rest, let circumstances go as they might. Lucy looked upon bis unconsciousness with a sense of relief. He need not be a witness to the degradation of his master ; this thing could never happen again nnd no one would have seen it hut herself. Poor Lucy Buikc! she knew for the first time how heavily lies the knowledge we would forget, but have not the power. A world of suffering passed through that gentle heait while she was gazing in the face of her hus band, that face so pule and unnatural in its expression. She took his arm soothingly and led him upstairs to her dressing-mom. He flung himself into the deep chair which she had just left, smiled in her face with an expres sion that made her heart sick, Btid fall ing heavily hack sunk to sleep on the cush ion lhat had supported her, with his head resting on the crimson velvet yet warm from the pressure of her cheek. The poor wife stood gazing sorrow fully upon him, her meek eyes were full of tears, and after a little she stole away to a corner of the room, knelt down by a pile of cush ions, and, smothering her sobs in their silk en billows, seemed to be prayiug with pain ful intensity. At length she arose to her feet, with an air of gentle'resignation, apd gliding toward her husband, who still slum bered on in the dull heavy 6leep of inebriety, WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. she bent down and removing the damp hair from his forehead, kissed it. Then stole away into her bedchamber and remain ed till morning in its gorgeous gloom watch ing him through the open door, but herself concealed all the time lest he might awake and he nbasbtd in her presence. , Alas ! poor wife, this unhappy night was but the prelude to many more equally wear ing, equally humiliating to that true heart. And now the beautiful face of Lucy Burke grew anxious w ith cat e and suffering. She no longer fiequented the gay circles that would have won her foith from the splendid solitude in which her days were spent, buther step grew languid in that sump tuous home, her rneek eyes dim with watch ing. Almost every night lhat irregular knock summoned her to he the witness of her husband’s degradation. But she hop ed on, whispering to herself, “it will be better soon, my true love must win him hack, for I do love him in spite of ius faults.” The guardian’s prophecy was accom plished at length. Ruin,total and irretrieva ble ruin, swept over the thoughtless hus band. Ruin that overthrew the household gods from his hearthstone and left his young wife standing amid the fragments, astound ed by the magnitude of difficulties that sur rounded her ; terrified by a dread of losing the object dearest to her on earth by some act of that law which crushes the poor man as it does tbe fallen, she sat trembling with in bet desolate home, miserable, but firm in the deep affection that no prosperity ormis foi tune could shake for an instant. 1 he last and most cruel blow came—her husband was in prison. When the young wife heard this she arose, gathered het man tle about her, and went forth into the street on foot and unattended. There is in the heart of London a huge building, dark and fearfully gloomy, uprear ing itself and frowning over the cheerful dwellings and beautiful specimens of archi tecture that surround it like a blasted fort ress cumbering a beautiful country with its prison-Housers enough to make tbe soul shudder. Many a wretched heart has with ered within its walls or broken in the in teuse agony of its sufferings; many a head has turned gray while watching those damp, naked wells, year after year, till hope and “ oven wish for liberty grew feeble with suf fering. Man’s inhumanity to his fellow creatures was written on every massive wall, sunk deep in the cold flags worn by ti e prisoner’s foot. There Shylnck credi tors demand their poud of flesh, and there profligate, the unfortunate and the poverty stricken herded alike in gloom and misery. There the villain gloried in his sin; un blushing voice chuckled over former evil deeds close by the honest unfortunate, who, bowed down by thame and sorrow, ate his scanty poition in tears, longing fora grave scarcely mote terrible than that which immured him. Within these walls, a prisoner, with no hopes of releuse, lay Thomas Buike. They had given him a cell to himself, and therein solitude he lay tossing to and fro on his straw pallet; evei and anon lie sat up and looked oponTlie bolted door with bloodshot eyes anjljifni that trembled as lie gazed. She'came at last, and the sound of her footfall on his dungeon floor stole to that fe verish heart like dew upon a bruited flower. The young wife sat down by bis couch and tried to force buck tbe tears that lay so heavily on her heart, but as she laid her hand upon bis forehead and gazed into his face, so changed with ihe midnight revel nnd his own bitter thoughts that a strang er had not recognized it, sobs burst from her bosom, and bending down she kissed him again and again, as if she feared that he might deem them a reproach. He turned away and muttered hoarsely to himself. “ Can nothing be done—must we remain here forever ?” said the wife, couqueriug her tears. The young man sat up and made an ef fort to appear calm. “ Leave me, Lucy,” he said, “ lenve roc to the fate 1 have well merited. You are not quite destitute. Thanks to your guai dian for that—not to me, wretch that I am 1 never thought of providing for you—l who loved you so—” Lucy slatted up and a flood of joy rush ed over her face. “ And have we any thing left T where ? how ? tell me, my husband. 1 thought thaV all was gone.” “ There is a settlement of some thousands,. Ido not know how many, hut enough for your comfoit. So he told me at tbe time— I never read it!” Lucy did not hear him out, she started up,tiedon her bonnet with hands that trem bled like aspens, and knocked hurriedly on the door. They let her out and Burke was alone again. “She, too, has left me,” he muttered in a choked voice, and falling back on his coucht he wept like a child. Once more the young w ife stood before her guardian, not with the warm confidence which had formei ly strengthened her in that presence, but trembling like a frightened bird, and pale with terror lest her suit might ’ he denied. It was denied, at first sternly and with woids of calm reproach, but hete waa | NUMBER 31.