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THE SEMI-WEEKLY SUMTER REPUBLICAN. ESTABLISHED IN 1854, By CHAS. W. HANCOCK. J VOL. 18. The Sumter Republican. Beki-Weekly, One Year - - - $1 00 Weely, One Year - - - - - 2.00 ISTTayable in Adyancejsj All advertisements emulating from public dices will be charged for in accordance with an act passed by the late General Assembly of Georgia—7s cents per hundred words for each of the first four insertions, and 35 cents for each subsequent insertion. Fractional parts of one hundred are considered one hundred words; each figure and initial, with date and signature, is counted as a word. The cash must accompany the copy of each advertisement, unless different arrange ments have been made. Advertising Bates. One Square first insertion, - - - -SI.OO Each subsequent insertion, - - - - 50 Lines of Minion, type solid con stitute a square. All advertisements not contracted for will be charged above rates. Advertisements not specifying the length of time for which they are to be inserted will be continued until ordered out and charged for accordingly. Advertisements tooccupy fixed places will be charged 25 per cent, above regular rates Notices in local column inserted for ten cent per line each insertion. Charles F. Crisp, Attorney at L,aw^ AMERICUS, GA. decl6tf B. P. HOLLIS, Attorney at ILate* AMERICUS, GA. Office, Forsyth Street, in National Hank building. dec2otf ~eTg. SIMMONS, Attorney at JLaw, AMERICUS GA., Office in Hawkins’ building, south side of Lamar Street, in the old office of Fort& S.mmons. janfitf J. A. ANBLEY, ATTORNEY AT LAW AND SOLICITOR IN EQUITY, Office on Public Square, Ovf.ii Gyles’ Clothing Store, Americus, Ga. After a brief respite I return again to the practice of law. As in the past it will he my earnest purpose to represent my clients faithfully and look to their interests. The commercial practice will receive close atten tion and remittances promptly made. The Equity practice, and cases involving titles of land and real estate are my favorites. Will practice in the Courts of Soutli west Georgia, the Supreme Court and the United States Courts. Thankful to my friends for their patronage. Fees moderate. novlltf DR. BACLEY’S INDIAN VEGETABLE LIVER AND KIDNEY PILLS. For sale hy all Druggists in Americus. Price 25 cents per box. jan26wly CARD. X offer my professional services again to the good people of Americus. After thirty years’ of medical service, I have found It difficult to withdraw entirely. Office next door to Dr. Eldridge’s drugstore, on the Square janl7tf R. C. BLACK, M. D. Dr. J. A. Physician and Surgeon. Offers his professional services to the people of Americus and vicinity. Office at Dr. Eldiidge’s Drug Store. At night can be found at residence on Furlow’s lawn. Calls will receive prompt attention. may26-tf Dp. D. P. HOLLOWAY, DentisT, Americas. - - - Georgia Troatssuccessfully all diseases of the Den tal organs. Fills teeth by the Improved method, and inserts artificial teeth on the best material known to the profession. ®“OFFICE over Davenport and Son’s Drug Store. marllt J. B. C. Smith & Sons, nm AID BUILD, Americus, Ca. We are prepared to do any kind of work in the carpenter line at short notice and on reasonable terms. Having had years of ex perience In the business, we feel competent to give satisfaction. All orders for con tracts for building will receive prompt at tention. Jobbing promptly attended to. may26-3m Commercial Bar. This well-established house will be kept in the same first-class style that has always characterized it. The Choicest Liquor and Cigars, Milwaukee, Budweiser and Aurora Beer, constantly on hand, and all the best brands of fine Brandies, Wines, &c. Good Billiard Tables for the accommodation of customers. may9tf JOHN W. COTNEY, Clerk. Commerciaf Hotel, G. M HAY, Proprietor. This popular House is quite new and handsomely furnished with new furniture, bedding and all other articles. It is in the centre of the business portion of the city, convenient to depot, the banks, warehouses, So., and enjoys a fine reputation, second to none, among its permanent and transient guests, on account of the excellence of its cuisine. Table Boarders Accommodated on Reasonable Terms. may9-tf G. M. HAY, Proprietor. L GEORGE ANDREWS, BOOT AND SHOE HAILEB, At his shop in the rear of J. Waxelbaum & Co.’s store, adjoining the livery stables, on Lamar St., invites the public to give him their work. He can make and repair all work at short notice. Is sober and always on hand to await on customers. Work guaranteed to be honest and good. pru*tf Rev. Father Wilds’ EXPERIENCE, Tlie Bev. Z. F. Wilds, well-known city missionary in New York, and brother of the late eminent Judge Wilds, of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, writes as follows: “78 E. 5 4th St., New York, May IG, 1882. Messrs. J. O. Ayer & Cos.. Gentlemen : Last winter I was troubled with a most uncomfortable itching humor affecting more especially my limbs, which itched so intolerably at night, and burned so intense ly, that 1 could scarcely bear any clothing over them. I was also a sufferer from a severe catarrh and catarrhal cough; my appetite was poor, and my system a good deal run down. Knowing the value of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, by observation of many other cases, and from personal use in former years, 1 began taking it for the above-named disorders. My appetite im proved almost from the first dose. After a short time the fever and itching were allayed, and all signs of irritation of the skin disappeared. My catarrh and cough were also cured by the same means, and my general health greatly improved, until it is now excellent. I feel a hundred per cent stronger, and I attribute these results to the use of the Sarsaparilla, which I recommend with all confidence as the best blood medicine ever devised. I took it in small doses three times a day, and used, in all, less than two bottles. I plaoe these facts at your service, hoping their publication may do good. Yours respectfully, Z. P. Wilds.” The above instance is but one of the many constantly coining to our notice, which prove the perfect adaptability of Ayer's Sarsa parilla to the cure of all diseases arising from impure or impoverished blood, and a weakened vitality. Ayer’s Sarsaparilla cleanses, enriches, and strengthens the blood, stimulates the action of the stomach and bowels, and thereby enables the system to resist and overcome the ntlucks of all Scrofu lous /y,*ctißca. /eruptions of the Skin, I thru m.itisnt, t'a'arrh , (icucr-tt Debility, and all a nd: -orders resulting from poor or corrupted b. >od Mini iow slate o! the system. Mi l Ai; n i\ Dr. J. C.Ayci’&Co., Lowell, Mass. Sold ly a’.l Druggists: price SI, six bottles for §5. AYER ’S CATHARTIC IgffgllP PILLS. Best Purgative Medicine cure Constipation, Indigestion, Headache, and ;:!1 I'ilious Disorders. Sold everywhere. Always reliable. rostette^ Pb. STOMACH A BjfTERS No time should be lost if the stomach, liver and bowels are affected, to adopt the sure remedy, Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters. Diseases of the organs named beget others far more serious, and a delay is therefore hazardous. Dyspepsia, liver complaint, chills and fever, early rheumatic twinges, kidney weakness, bring serious bodily trouble if trilled with. Lose no time in using effective and safe.medicine. For sale by all Druggists and Dealers generally. AYER’S Ague Cure IS WARRANTED to euro all cases of ma larial disease, such as Fever and Ague, Inter mittent or Chill Fever, Remittent Fever, Dumb Ague, Bilious Fever, and Liver Com plaint. In case of failure, after due trial dealers arc authorized, by our circular o July Ist, 1882, to refund the money. Dr. J.C. Ayer&Co., Lowell, Mass. Sold by all Druggists. POUTZ’S HORSE AND CATTLE POWDERS No llorse will die of .Colic, Rots or Luxe Fk vkb, if Foutz’s Powders are used in time. Foutz’s Powders will cure and prevent Hoo Cholera. outz’s Powders will prevent Gapes in Fowls. Foutz’s Powders will increase the quantity of milk and cream twenty per cent., and make the butter Arm and sweet. Foutz’s Powders will cure or prevent almost every Disease to which Horses and Cattle are subject. Foutz’s Powders will give Satisfaction. Sold everywhere. DAVID E. FOUTZ, Proprietor. BALTIMORE, MD. DIVORCES— No publicity; residents of Desertion, Non-Support. Advice and applications for stamps. VV. H . LEE, Att’y, 239 B’way, N. Y. ADVERTISERS By addressing EO P. miwm r.*v CO., 10 Spruce St., New York, can learn the ex act cost of any proposed line of ADVER TISING in American Newspapers. J3TTOO page Pamphlet, 25c. july-1 El, AM JOHNSON, JOHN W. M’ PHEKSON, BTEVER. JOHNSON, JAMES B. WILBANKS. EIAM JOHNSON, SON & CO., WHOLESALE hub Si musm mums —DEALERS IN— TOBACCO AND CIGARS. FOREIGN and DOMESTIC FRUITS, Veg etables and Melons in Season. BUT TER, CHICKENS and EGGS, SWEET and IRISH Potatoes, Consignment* and Order* solicited. 12 Decatur and 13 Line Sts., P. O. Box 515. ATLANTA, GEORGIA. mayStf Corn Starch, Arrow Root, Imperial Granum, Tapioca, Sago. Dr. Eldridge’s Drug Stow. INDEPENDENT IN POLITICS, AND DEVOTED TO NEWS, LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND GENERAL PROGRESS AMERICUS, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1883. WE/T&T. THE TWO SOWEIIS. Death came to the earth, hy his side was Spring, They came from God’s own bowers, And the earth was full of their wandering, For they both were sowing flowers. "I sow,” said Spring, hy the stream and the wood, And the village children know The gay glad time of my own sweet prime, And where my blossoms grow. “There is not a spot in the quiet wood But hath heard tne sound of my feet, And the violets come from their solitude When my tears hath made them sweet.” “I sow,” said Death, “where the hamlet stands I sow in the churchyard drear; I drop in the giave with gentle hands, My flowers irom year to year. “The young and the old go into their rest, To the sleep that waits them below; But I clasp the children unto my breast, And kiss them before 1 go.” “I sow,” said Spring, “but my (lowers de cay When the year turns weak and old, When the breath of the bleak winds wears them away, And they wither and droop in the mould. “But they come again when the young earth feels The new blood leap In her veins, When the fountain of wonderful life un seals, And the earth is alive with the rains.” “I sow,” said Death;” “but my flowers nn seen Pass away from the hand of men, Nor sighs nor tears through the long sad years Ever bring back their bloom again: “But now they are wondrous bright and fair In the fields of their high abode; Tour flowers are the flowers that a child may wear But mine are the blossoms of God.” Death came to the earth, by his side was Spring; Ihe two came from God’s own bowers; One sowed in night and the other in light, Yet they both were sowing flowers. A BURIED ROMANCE. Even in the kindly shadows of the gathering twilight, she looked older than he, this woman of rare grace and matchless charm, whose eyes rested so worsbipfully on the face of the man who hail thrown himself on the cushion at her feet—older than the year them selves would warrant, for she, Sydney Reed, was in reality but, six years George Winston’s senior. But six years leave their wt.n their way lies over burning ploughshares. There were lines upon the lovely face, and a sadness in the beautiful eyes, r.o time unaided could have wrought. She passed her hand now, half bewilderingly across her brow. “Is sorrow for me really at an end?” she murmured, “I cannot grasp it.” “At an end forever, darling, if my strength avails anything to keep it from your door, for to-night you belong for the last time to yourself. To-mor row you belong to me!” answered the young, confident voice. He was but twenty-two, this boy. She was twenty-eight, and a widow. Her married life had been one of unut terable wretchedness. Four years be fore, her husband had deserted her. Two years later she had learned of his death, which had taken place in a drunken brawl in a far Western city. She had put on the outward badge of mourning in memory of the days when he, handsome and reckless, had smiled away her girl’s heart. She buried in his unseen grave her weight of woe, and with it all his faults. She thought, too, that she had long buried youth and happiness, but three months since they had resurrected themselves, and listening to George Winston’s pleading words and loving prayer, she found resistance had failed her, and so granted him the boon he asked of her. And to-morrow was to be her second wedding day. Fondly and hopefully he painted to her the coining years, each moment of which should be to her a recompense for past misery. She said little. It was such joy to hear his voice, to feel his touch, to creep into the shelter of his love and rest there, grateful and content. It was ten o’clock* when she bade him good-night. She still felt the ten der pressure of his lips upon hers as she mounted the stairs to her room. She made him leave her thus early be cause some of her preparations were yet to be made for the morrow, and had promised him to retire before mid night—though her waking dreams she said were so much sweeter than any slumber might bestow, she hardly thought the exchange a fair one. There were some letters she wanted to be preserved. Among these latter were a few he had written to her, dur ing a short absence, a month previous. She took out the first from its wrap per to re-read, but had not turned the page when there came a low rap at the door. “Como in,” she called, haif-impa tiently, without looking up. She had given orders to her servants not to be disturbed. She had told Marie, her maid, to come to her at midnight. Tt was not yet half-past ten. The door opened at her summons, but no one entered. “Well, Marie,what is it?” she ques tioned, and slowly raised her eyes, to find—no Marie, no servant, but a man’s form, guaut and haggard, dark ening the threshold—a man’s eyes hot and burning, fixed upon her face. She sat carven into stone. It was pitiful to see the blood recede from her face, leaving it white and drawn. If ■ three hours previously she had looked i older than her lover, ten years were i now added to her age. Her lover? No longer had she a i right to the possession of the sweet ; title, for he whose gaze held hers was i her living husband —the man whom i for two years she had mourned as dead. He came forward at last, closing the door behind him, and advancing, with feeble tottering her. “Speak to me,” he said. “Give me one word of welcome, one word of for giveness.” 1 She opened her lips then, hut no sound came. “I—l know,” he went on. “You need not tell me. You were to have been married. It would have been a crime. But for this T would not have come. I would still have let you give credence to my death. Oh, Sydney, will you not believe me when 1 swear to you that, both for your sake and my own, I wish to God I wire.” The utter misery of his tone brought her own desolate anguish more fully before her. With a low cry, she bur ied her face in her hands. The letter she held fell from them. Still she heard'her husband speaking, as though from afar off. “Courage, Sydney,” he said. “You will only need patience dear. Look at me! It is not hard to see that lam a doomed man. I have never recovered from the wound I received in the affray in which they reported me to have been killed. Dissipation helped the work along—though since that night, no drop of liquor has touched my lips. When a man stands so close to Death that he recognizes his icy breath, lie sees things with anew clearness. Dur ing my long and desperate illness, 1 thought of you with a longing you can never dream of, but I dared not send for you. I felt that all my right was forfeited. Nor will I trouble you now. When I am dead, you shall learn of your freedom. Until that time, you will not hear of or from me again.” He stooped as he finished. She knew that he lifted up the material of dress and pressed it a moment to his lips. Slowly and falteringly he again crossed the room. His hand was on the knob of the door, when she broke the spell that bound her, and rose up to her feet. “Stay, Harold,” she said. “Your place is here. It was you who desert ed me. You shall not say that I de serted you.” He staggered against the walk “Oh, ray C.,d!” he cried; “is this an angel or a woman who thus speaks to me?” “It is no angel,” she answered; “only a woman, striving to do the duty so plainly marked out before her.” But the strength which had upheld him in the hopelessness now failed him. With a great cry, he threw himself at her feet, striving in vain to check the sobs which so cruelly rent him. Very gently she soothed him. She had no time to realize her own misery, until, at last, she left him, quiet and sleeping, ain room beneath her roof. How the time passed, she never knew. With her locked hands clasped before her, she sat watching the fire till it perished, watching the dawn break, conscious of neither heat nor darkness, until, at nine o’clock, her maid brought a cup of coffee to her door. The servants had been apprised ot the master’s return the night before. She took the coffee now and diank it. “When Mr. Winston comes,” she said, “admit him yourself, Marie, and bring him immediately here to me.” “An hour later her dour opened. “Not dressed, my darling, cried a happy voice. “Sydney, in God’s name what has happened?” For he saw the white haggered face, upraised so piteously to his. With marvelous strength and calm she told him all. He listened silently until she had finished, and then, with one bound, he had gathered her to his arms. “What is this man to you, that he should take you from me? You are mine—mine, I never will forego my claim.” At the old, tender masterfulness of his tones, her womanhood re-asserted itself. She bowed her head upon his breast, and burst into a passion of Bobs. “My love—my own!” he whispered, “this is but the chimera of the dark ness. Our wedding day has dawned— you are mine. Oh, my darling, come to me!” But how she lifted her face. “He is my husband, George,” she said. “My duty lies with him. Now, leave me. I can bear no more. YY>u who have always said you loved me host in my womanhood—you would not tempt me to sin? No, dear leave me and forget me. Y'ou are young— you have but to look for happiness and to find it.” “No, Sydney. I cannot resist your words! you bid me go, and I obey you. But first, love, I exact a promise—when you are free, send me word. I will leave an address, where a letter will always reach me. I must put the ocean between us—l could not stay here and prove obedient else; but my own, I never will renounce my claim—and be it one year, or ten, or twenty, one line will bring me to your side, to leave it never again. Then with a thousand mad kisses, he sealed the promise he had exacted, and went out from her believing that earth held no such wretched man as he. Five years had passed—five years to Sydney Reed of faithful, devoted duty —five years, during which her love and care alone fostered the feeble spark of life in Harold Reed’s remorseful heart, and then he laid the heavy bur den down and with his last words murmurs of grateful love and blessing, the tired eyes closed, shutting out for ever the vision which all these years had been their light and gladness. She had had no word from George Winston all this time. He had kept his promise faithfully. For a year longer, she too would be silent, and then—ah then she would send for him. Once more she would look into his face—once more listen to his voice. They might be friends only, but would friendship e’er before have been so sweet? The love she long repressed as sin, again held sway. It had burst its tetters and renewed its strength. When the time came to write the let ter, she knew not how to word it, though every day for months she fan cied the hour when she would pen it. But at last she wrote theso simple words; “Come to me George. You will not have forgotten me, and I—l have lived but to remember. Sydney Reed.” These she sealed and addressed to the address he had given her, and sank back in her chair to dream awhile, ere touching her bell and ordering it post ed. A happy smile played about her lips. The future, so long closed to her again opened its gate of promise and feasted her hungry gaze. Idly she took up a paper at her hand holding it before her eyes as a screen from the fire, when her attention was arrested by a name—the name which was inscribed upon the envelope whose ink was scarcely yet dry. It was a printed description of Geo. Winston’s marriage to the young and beautiful heiress of one of England’s noblemen. The marriage had taken place in London, a fortnight before. Once, twice, thrice, she read it through, and then, quietly reaching forth, she took "dp the letter she had wiitten, passed it an instant to her white, quivering lips, and falling on her knees, dropped it in the flames. As the fire darted up, she laughed aloud in the strange stillness. Others would have seen but the light the pa per gave, but she saw more—it was the funeral pyre of a broken heart. A DEAD HEART. Everybody wondered when Robert j Egerton married his wife. He was plain, and quiet, but honest and as good as gold, he worshipped Marguerite as a devotee dois his saint. But all the same people wondered how in the world such a plain unas suming man had won such a glorious ly beautiful creature as she, while equal astonishment was felt and ex pressed that Marguerite Lassenr had taken up with him when so many oth er more desirable men had been at her feet. Of course nobody knew the true in wardness of the affair, how that in her twenty years of life, Marguerite Las seur had never had a friend so good to her as Mr. Egerton, how, notwith standing all her admirers, no one of them all had ever caused her a quick ened heart beat; how gratitude urged her acceptance of Robert Egerton’s suit when he asked her, in his quiet, intense way, to be his wife. He did love her so entirely. It seemed to him that his heart and soul were one flame of passion for her, and yet, in his reserve and reticence, he very seldom gave expression to it. Well, Marguerite liked him infinitely better than any one else in the world, He was able to give her a delightful home, and many of the things of life that she wanted, and she married him, and they were happy. That there was no delicious ecstasy about her feeling for him, she never cared, and believed there was no capac ity for deep passion about her. Then, when they had been two years married, Eugene Sartoris come homo with Mr. Egerton to dinner one day, and then—his first glance into the magnificent eyes, great dark-grey eyes, that shone like star-beams from under the heavy black brows, as the luscious scarlet lips, and pale, proud face, told him that there was a woman whose heart had never been touched by love’s fire yet. He was wonderfully handsome—this friend of Marguerite’s husband—as handsome for a man as Marguerite was wondcrously beautiful for a woman. He was rich, and all through his life he had been accustomed to having things pretty much as he wanted them —his horses, his servants, his travels, and among women who idolized him. That one very first look into Mrs. Egerton’s serene eyes told his observ ant glance its own story. He looked at her keenly, sharply, with his handsome, lazy blue eyes, noted the exquisite beauty of her face and figure, heard the sweet melody of her low, womanish voice, watched the lissom grace of her manner, and—fell in love with her there and then, as he had never fallen in love before. And deliberately set himself to work to awaken her sleeping heart. And succeeded. It was not a week later when Mar guerite discovered what had come to her, and in her first discovery she was horrified and frightened to know that 1 there had been depths lying dormant in her nature of which she had no idea until Eugene Sartoris’s master baud touched them with unsealing power. It seemed to her the very first mo ment of it all that suddenly some rap turous cup was given her to drink, if only she would lift it to her lips. But she neither dared enter in, nor lift the cup, because of her conscience, that would not hush its ceaseless mo notone of warning, that faithful des perate conscience of hers that contiu uedly reminded her how horrible, how sinful, how hopeless it would be to yi Id to the sweet temptation. But Sartoris, understanding so well just what a woman of her temperament would of necessity have to go through before the struggle between passion and duty, wrong and right, were ad justed, patiently bided his time, and hy bis looks, his words, liis manners, made her love him even more and more. Until at the moment of awfullest indecision, he made the temptation the sweeter, and conquered, and hit a masterful blow on the conscience that deadened it. After the confession and the avowal, oh how rapturous was the descent into that enchanted land! and even in the midst of her wild, wicked happiness, Margeuritc remembered that it was a “descent,” not an “ascent.” I hardly know how to chronicle the pitiful story of those days. Mr. Egerton never doubted his wife, a devotee would sooner have doubted his patron saint. Ho was kindness and hospitality combined to the man who professed to be his friend. His horses, and his home, and his wife, were always placed at Sartoris’s disposal, and before his very eyes the two lived their life. People saw and remarked upon it. People said Egerton was as blind as a bat not to see the desperate flirtation going on under his nose. But, as usually is the case, uo word ot town-talk came to his ears, the in jured husband oi deserted wife gener ally remains longest in actual ignor ance. And then, as if the furies had added their choicest bension upon Sartoris ami Marguerite, it so happened about this time that Mr. Egerton was obliged to be absent from home several weeks. And then! After he had gone, Marguerite suf fered awfully in her conscience, that, taithful and true, had struggled up from its prostration and renewed its good word. But Sartoris had no such inward monitor, and because his influence over Marguerite was the strongest that had ever been placed upon her, it was hard ly a matter of surprise that when in his sweetest and most persuasive way he urged with her that their only hope of happiness was in her giving her home, her husband, up, and going with him. After a little, Marguerite consented. And left her home, her beautiful homo, while the man who loved her was away, loving and trusting her with all his great good heart. Well, she was wicked, but don’t judge her too harshly. Had she been wholly depraved, her conscience never would have given'her such ruthless twinges, and never, in the very midst of her fairest dreams of bliss, was there a moment when she was not in mortal fear and terror of the God she had thus dared, by her sin. Then, Egerton came home , to learn all about it. Did he hate her? Did he wish her evil, or burn for re venge upon her for the wreck and ruin she had worked in his life? Perhaps you may not believe it, but that night when he reached home and sat down alone, he laid his head on the arm of his chair and cried like a child, not for shame, not for anger, hut be cause he loved her so. And if Marguerite had come to his door just then he would have snatched her in his arms, and begged her to be merciful to him. It was a terrible experience for him— out in the world, and alone in his empty house; but the week passed away somehow, as they will pass whether one suffers, or enjoys, and the months rolled up into years—three of them—just one year more than he had enjoyed with the woman he loved so well. Three years! He had got into the new groove hy this time, and had learned to live his life without her, when one stormy, sobbing November night, she came to the door and rung, and was shown in, so muffled in her veils and wraps that the servant did not recognize her. Not a pulse of his heart quickened as he saw who she was. He arose, and handed her a chair. “You are not angry, then, enough to cast me out of your house?” She threw aside her veil as she spoke, in her sweet pathetic voice, that had once been the most enchanting music to him. “I do not know why I should cast you out.” “I am not in the habit of turning chance comers from my doors.” “I presume you wish to see me, or you would not have taken the trouble to call.” “Robert, Robert!” she cried out ag onizingly, “I would rather have you strike me than speak to me like that. Tell me you dispise me, hate me, scorn me as I deserve, as I do myself, any thing rather than like that.” He looked at her, elegant, ladylike, beautiful and young as the day he saw her last, when she bad been his wife. There was a cold curious look in his | FOUR DOLLARS PER ANNUM. face, thoughtful, pitying, but oh, cold, cold as ice. “I don’t understand the good taste in your cjming,” he said at last, “but if I can be of any service to you I hope I tnay be.” “Are you in trouble, or is Mr. Sar toris?” Not a faltering of the quiet, icily polite, thoughtful voice as he spoke the name, but an awful deathly agony spread over her face at the sound of it, and she- rose to her feet, pale as a dead woman. “Don’t call his name in my hearing!” “dou know as well as I where he is.” “I never have seen him since that accursed day when T went with him from here.” “I swear to you I did not sin against yon, Robert; hut who would believe me?” “I stayed away, afraid—ashamed to come and tell yon I never had been the worst you were thinking of me, Rob ert.” She tell on her knees, her fair hands clasped in pleading. He smiled coldly, sarcastically. “I think I have read somewhere of a man who had a living soul in a body to all appearance dead.” “I have a dead heart* in a living body.” “Your explanations, your prayers, your tears, your oaths, your sworn oath written in your heart’s blood, are all nothing to me.” “Gan I he of any service to you, pe cuniarily or otherwise, madam?” And Marguerite, poor, weak, wicked Marguerite, who had sinned, but not so deeply as you may have thought— knew that even her humility and re pentance could never avail with the man who once worshipped her so. She went away, poor Marguerite, and Robert Egerton neither knew nor cared, for his heart was dead, and she had been its murderess. FOOD FOR THOUGHT. The best portions of a good man’s life is his little, nameless, nnreniem bored acts of kindness and of love. The religious observances of the Lord’s Day may legitimately be re garded as essential to the Christian life. The same things are honest and dis honest, the manner of doing them, and the end of the design, makes the sep aration. From pity for others, spring ardent, eouiagouus benevolence; from pity for ourselves, feeble, cowardly sentimen tality. Every great example of punishment lias in it some justice, the suffering in dividual is compensated by the public good. The loss of purity, the loss of sim plicity, the loss of honesty are real losses; but they betall us only by our own consent. There is no saying to what perfection of success a man may come, who be gins with what he can do, and uses the means at hand. One of the best rules in conversation is, never to say a thing which any of the company can reasonably wish he had left unsaid. Form the habit of close, accurate observation, and you will be possessed of a powerful instrument for intellect ual improvement. Untold thousands of the bravest and best souls in this world may be found in coarse clothes, as a rough shell cov ers many a sweet kernel. Anger is a perfect alieniation of mind from prayer; and therefore is contrary to that attention which presents our prayers in a right line to God. There is no secret in the heart which our actions do not disclose. The most consumate hypocrite cannot at all times conceal the workings of the heart. Even if work was the sole aim and end ot life, it would be folly to neglect relaxation, for no labor can be efficient ly and permanently carried on without it. It is better to meet danger than to wait for it. He that is on a lee shore, and foresees a hurricane, stands out to sea and encounters a storm to avoid shipwreck. He that is good will infallibly be come better, and he that is bad will as certainly become worse, for vice, virtue and time are three things that never stand still. He who cheats the man that con fides in him, in a witty manner, makes us laugh at his jest, and half disarms our anger; but reflection insures him our contempt and indignation. Carry yourself respectfully towards your superiors, friendly towards yonr equals, condescending towards your in teriors, generously towards all. New fallen snow does not more cer tainly receive and reveal the footprints ot the person that passes over it than man’s spirit records the impress of every thought and word and deed. Alas! we know that ideals can nevor be completely embodied in practice. Ideals must ever lie a great way off— and we will thankfully content our selves with any not intolerable approx imation thereto. The flux of power is eternally the same. It rolls in music through the ages; and all terrestrial energy, the manifestations of life as well as the dis play of phenomena, are but the modu lations of its rhythm. NO. 85.