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OLTyiA;
OK,
THI DOCTOR'S TWO LOVES,
BT THE AUTHOR Of
m O* Second Mrs. TiUDtaon," m Never
Forgotten,* Etc., Etc.
CHAPTER XYIU. (Continned.)
He went his way, and 1 went mine—no
into my own room, where I should be
none to think over things. It was a
pleasant room, and had been mine from
my boyhood. There were some ugly old
pictures still hanging against the walls,
which I could not find in my heart to take
down. The model of a ship I had carved
with my penknife, the sails of which had
been made by Julia, occupied the top
shelf over my books. The first pistol I
had ever possessed lay on the same shell
It was my own den. my nest, my sanctuary,
my home within the home. I could not
ft ink of myself being quite at home any
where else.
Of late I had been awakened in the
Bight two or three times, and found my
mother standing at my bedside, with her
thin, transparent fingers shading the light
from my eyes. When I remonstrated
with her she had kissed me, smoothed the
clothes about me, and promised meekly to
go back to bed. Did she visit me every
night? and would there come a time when
she could not visit me?
CHAPTER XIX.
bbokkx orr.
As I asked myself this question, with an
Unerring premonition that the time would
noon come when my mother and I would
be separated, I heard her tapping lightly at
the door. She was not in the habit of
Wring her guests, and I was surprised
and perplexed at seeing her.
“Your father and Mrs. Murray are hav
ing a game of chess," she said, answering
my look of astonishment “We can be alone
together half an hoar. And now tell me
what is the matter? There is something
going wrong with yon.”
Bhe sank down weariedly into a chair,
and I knelt down beside her. It was al
most harder to tell her than to tell Julia ;
bnt it was worse than useless to pnt off the
evil moment Better for her to hear all
from me before a whisper reached her from
any one elae.
'Johanna came here," she continued,
“with a face as grave as a Judge, and asked
for Julia in a melancholy voice. Has there
been any quarrel between you two?”
She was accustomed to our small quar
rels, and to setting them right again; for
we were prone to quarrel in a cousinly
fashion without much real bitterness on
either side, but with such an intimate and
irritating knowledge of each other’s weak
goints, that we needed a peace-maker at
“Mother, I am not going 'to marry my
eousin."
“So I have hoard before," she answered,
with a faint smile. “Come, come, Martin!
it is too late to talk boyish nonsense like
this."
“But I lore somebody else," I said,
warmly, for my heart throbbed at the
thought of Olivia; “and I told Julia so this
afternoon. It is broken off for good now,
mother. ”
She gave me no answer, and I looked
op into her dear face in alarm. It had
grown rigid, and a peculiar blue tinge of
fallow was spreading over it Her head
had fallen back against the chair. I had
never seen her look so death-like in any of
her illnesses, and I sprang to my feet in
tenor. She stopped me ty a slight con
vulsive pressure of her hand, as I was
about to unfasten her brooch and open her
dress to givo her air.
“No, Martin,” she whispered, “I shall be
better in a moment *
But it was several minutes before she
breathed freely and naturally, or could
raise her head. Then she did not look at
me. but lifted np her eyes to the pale even
ed B ky, and her lips quivered with agita
tion.
martin, it will be __<* aeaui u*. tee, sue
said; and a few tears stole down her cheeks,
which I wiped away.
“It shall uot be the death of yon,” I ex
claimed. “If Julia is willing to marry me,
knowing the whole trath, I am ready to
marry her for your sake, mother. I would
do anything for yoor sake. But Johanna
said she ought to be told, and I think it
was right myself."
“Who is it, who can it be that yon love?”
“Mother,” I said, “I wish I had told you
before, but I did not know that I lovert the
girl as I do, till I saw her yesterday in
Bark, and Captain Carey charged me
with it."
“That girl!" she cried. “One of the
Olhviers! Oh, Martin ! you must marry in
your own class.”
“That was a mistake,” I answered. “Her
Christian name is Olivia; I do not know
what her surname is. ”
“Not know even her name! ” she ex
claimed.
“Listen, mother,” I said; and then I told
her all I knew about Olivia, and drew such
picture of her, as I had seen her, as made
my mother 6mile and sigh deeply in turns.
“But she may be an adventuress; you
know nothing about her,” she objected.
“Surely you cannot love a woman you do
mot esteem ?"
“Esteem!" I repeated. “I never thought
whether I esteemed Olivia, but I am satis
fied I love her. You may be quite sure she
is no adventuress. An adventuress would
mot hide herself in Tardif s out-of-the-wav
cottage. ”
“A £rl without friends and without a
name! she sighed; “a runaway from her
umily and home ! It does not look well.
Martin.’’
I could answer nothing, and it would be
of little use to try. I saw where my mother’s
prejudices would blind her. To love any
one not of our own caste was a fatal error
in her eyes.
“Does Julia know all this?" she asked.
“She has not heard n word about Olivia, ”
I answered. “As scon as I told her I loved
Borne one else better than her, she bade me
begone out of her sight. She has not an
amiable temper,”
“But she is an upright, conscientious,
religious woman," she said, somewhat
angrily. “She would never have run away
from her friends; and we know all about
her. r cannot think what your father will
say, Martin. It has given him more pleas
ure and satisfaction than anTihing that has
broken off, it upsets everything."
Of course it would upset everything;
there was the mischief of it. The convul
sion would be so great, that I felt ready to
marry Julia in order to avoid it, suppos.ng
she would marry me. That was the ques
tion, audit rested solely with her. I would
almost rath, r face the long, slow weariness
of an unsuitable marriage than encounter
the immediate results of the breaking off
of our engagement just on the eve of its
consummation. I was a coward, no doubt,
but events had hurried me on too rapidly
for me to stand still and consider the cost.
Oh, Martin. Mart* n '” wailed mv poor
Dioiutri, uie>iMu|s uuwa ugniu fiuuuemt.
I had so set my heart upon this! I did so
to see yon in a home of yognr own 1
And Julia was so generous, never looking
a if all the money was hers, and you with
out a penny! What is to become of you
now, my boy? I wish I had been dead
and in my grave before this had han
pened!" r
“Hush, mother!" I said, kDeeling down
again beside her and kissing her tenderly
tt is still in Julia's lunids. If she wili
marry me, 1 shall marry her."
“But then you will not be happy?" she
•aid, with f esh sobs. v
It was impossible for me to contradict
that, i felt that no misery would be canal
to that of losing Olivia. But I did mv best
to comfort my mother, by promising to see
Julia the uevt diy and renew mv encage,
tent, if pons bit-.
GEORGIA HOME JOURNAL: GREENESBORO. FRID.AY. JUNE 25.1886.—E1GHT PAGES.
V m
'Pray, ’may I be informed as to what is
the matter now?" broke in a satirical, cut
ting voice—(he voice of my father. It
roused ua both—my mother to her usual
mood of gentle submission, and me to the
chronic state of irritation which his pres
ence always provoked in me.
“Not much, sir,” I answered, coldly;
'only my marriage with my cousin Julia is
broken off."
“Broken off!" he ejaculated; “broken
off !“
CHAPTER XX.
TUB DOB REES’ OOOD SAME.
My father’s florid face looked almost as
rigid and white as my mother’s had done.
He stood in the doorway, with a lamp in
bis hand (for it had grown quite dark while
my mother anu a •> uu&ing;, ana me
light shone fall upon his changed face,
ms hand shook violently, so I took the
lamp from him and set it down on the
table.
“Go down to Mrs. Murray,” he said,
turning savagely upon my mother. “How I
could you be so rude as to leave her? bhe |
talks of going away. Let her go as soon j
as she likes. I shall Btay here with Mar
tin.”
“I did not know I had been away so
long," aha answered meekly, and looking depre
catmgly from oat to the other of ua. “l'oi
will not quarrel with your father, Martin, if 1
leave you, will you?” Thia the whispered iz
my ear in a beseeching tone.
"Not if I eaa help it mother,” I replied, alsc
in a whisper.
“ Now, eoufound it!“ cried Doctor Dobree,
after ehe had gone, (lowly and reluctantly, anc
looking back at the door to me. ‘‘Now Jut
tell me shortly all about thia nonsense of yours.
I thought some quarrel was up, when Juiia die
not oome home to dinner. Out with it, Mar
tin.”
“As J said before, there is not much to tell,’
I answered. “I was compelled, in honor, to
tell Julia I loved another woman more thac
herielf; and I presume, though lam not sure
she will decline to become my wife.”
“ In love with another woman 1” repeated m
father, with along wnisue, partly ot sympatU)
and partly of perplexity. “Who is it, my
son?*
“That is of little moment,” I said, haring
no desire whatever to oonfide the story to him.
“The main point ts that it’s true, and I told
Juba so this afternoon.”
‘‘Good gracious. Martin!" he cried, “what
accursed folly! What need was there to tell
her of any little peeoadillo, if you could oonoeel
it ? Why did you not oome to me for advice i
Julia is a prude, like your mother. It will not
be easy for fier to dverlook this.”
“There is nothing to overlook,” I said. “At
soon as I knew my own mind I told her hon
estly about it.”
At that moment it did not occur to me that
my honesty was due to> Johanna’s insistent ad-j
vice. I believed just then that I had acted
from the impulse of my own sense of honor,
and the belief gave my word* and tone more
spirit than they would have bad otherwise. My
father’s face grew paler and graver aa he lie
tened ; he looked older by ten years than he had
done an hour ago in the dining-room.
•‘ I don’t understand it,” he muttered ; “dc
you mean that tide is a serious thing ? Are yon
in love with tome girl of onr own dase ? Not
a mere passing fancy, that no one would think
of seriously for an instant? Just a trifling
faux pas, that it is no nse telling women about,
eh? I could make allowance for that, Martin,
and get Julia to do the tame. Come, it cannot
be anything more.”
I did not reply to him. Here we had come,
he and I, to the very barrier that had bees
growing up between ns ever since I had discov
ered my mother’s secret and wasting grief. H
was on one tide of it, and lon the other—a
wall of separation which neither of os ooulc
lean over.
“Why don't you speak, Martin?” he aaked
testily.
“Because I bate the subject,” I answered.
“When I told Julia I loved another woman,
I meant .that tome one else occupied the
place in my attection which belonged o to
my wife; and so Julia understood it *
“Then,” he cried, with a gesture of de
spair, “I am a ruined man!”
His oonstemation and dismay were so
real that they startled me; yet Knowing
what a consummate actor he was, I re
strained both my fear and my sympathy,
and waited for him to enlighten me farftfe.
He sat with his head bowed, and his limmU
hanging down, in an attitude of profoftd
despondency, so different from his udMil
jaunty air that every moment increased
my anxiety. ‘
“What can it have to do with you?” I
asked after a long pause.
“I am a ruined and disgraced man!” he
reiterated, without looking np; “if yon have
broken off your marriage with Julia, I shall
never raise my head again. ”
“But why?” I asked uneasily.
“Come down into my consulting-room,*
he said, after another pause of aelibeft
tion. I went on before him carrying ftt
lamp, and, turning round once or tvoM
saw his face turn gray, and the expressly
of it vacant and troubled. His consulting
room was a luxurious room, elegantly fur
nished; and with several pictures on the
walls, including a painted photograph of
himself, taken recently by the first photog
rapher lu Guernsey. There were book
cases containing a number of the best
medical works; behind which lay, out of
sight, a numerous selection of French nov
els, more thumbed than the ponderous vol
umes in front. He sank down into an easv
cnair, shivering as if we were in the depth
of winter.
“Martin, lam a ruined man!” he said,
for the third time.
“But how?* T asked again, impatiently,
for my fears were growing strong. Cer
tainly he was not acting a part this time.
“I dare not tell you,” ho cried, leaning
his htad upon his desk, and sobbing. How
white his hair was! mid how aged he
looked! I recollected how he used to play
With me when I was boy, and carry me be
fore him on horseback, as long back as I
could remember. My heart softoned and
warmed to him as it had not done for
years.
“Father!" I raid, “if you can bust any
one, you can trust me. If you are ruined
and disgraced I shall be the same, ns your
son. ”
“That's true.” he answered, that’s true.
“It will bring disgrace on you and your
mother. We shall be forced to leave
Guernsey, wh re she has lived all her life;
and it will be the death of her. Martin,
you must save us all by making it up wi.b
Julia. ”
“But why?" I demand'd, once more. “I
must know what you m an. ”
“Mean ? he -tpd, turning upon me
angrily, “you blockin' id! I mean that uu
less you m.irrr Julii I shall have to give |
an account of her jropertv: and I could
not make all square, not if I sold every
stick and stone I posses-'.” 1
I “at silent for a moment, twin? to take J
in this piece of information. He had been i
Julia's guardian ever since she was left au 1
orphan, ten years old; but I had never
known that there had not been a formal S
and legal settlement of her affairs when she
was of age. Our family name had no blot
upon it; it was one of ’ the most honored
names in the island. But if this came to
light, then the disgrace would be dark in
deed.
‘Can you tell me all about it?’ I asked.
My father, after making his confession,
settled himself in his chair comfortably;
appearing to feel that he had begun to make
reparation for the wrong. His tempera
ment was more buoyant than mine. Self
ish natures are often buoyant.
“It would take a loug time,” he said,
“and it would be a deuce of a nuisance, i
You make it up with Julia and marry her, j
as you re bound to do. Of course you will
manage all her money when you are her
husband, as you will be. Now you know
“But I don't know all." I replied; “and I
insist upon doing so, before I make up my
mind whit to do."
I be.ieve he expected this opposition !
from me, for otherwise all. he hud said j
could h ive been said in my room. But
afier fei-blv giving batt’e on various points 1
and staving off sundry inquiries, he opened
a drawer in one of his canine's, and pro- ’
dneed a number of deeds, scrip, etc., be- !
longing to Ju in.
lor two hours 1 wne busy with his nc- I
counts. Once or twice he tiled to e'ink i
out of the room; but that I would not euf
t<-r. At length the ornamental clock on
hia chimney-| l-c struck eleven, aul be i
loadt uuothvr iflott to best a reheat. j
' I 'aid* tdl everytning Unclear,”
j “All?” he wepfrated; “isn’t it eno4skt*
“Between three end four thousand pounds
* deficient!” I answered; “it is qnite enough. ”
; “Enough to make me a felon,” he said,
“if Julia chooses to prosecute me."
“I think it is highly probable, ” I replied;
“though I know nothing of the law."
“Then you see clearly, Martin, there is
no alternative but for you to marry her.
and keep our secret I have reckoned npon
I this for years, and your mother and I have
: been of one mind in bringing it about If
> you marry Juiia, her affairs go direct from
my hands to yours, and we are all saf*. If
you break with her she will leave ns. and
, demand an account of my guardianship:
and your name and mine will be branded
in our own island.”
“That is very clear,” I said sullenly.
“Your mother would not survive it!” he
i continued with a solemn accent.
“Oh! I have been threatened with that
already,” I exclaimed, verv bitterly. “Pray
does my mother know of this oi g T W ‘f n i
business?”
“Heaven forbid!” he cried. * Your
mother is a good woman, Martin; as simple
as a dove. You ought to think of her before
you consign us an to sname. 1 can quit
Guernsey. lam an old man, and it signi
fies very little where I lie down to die. I
have not teen as good a husband as I
might have been; but I could not face her
after 6be knows this. Poor Mary! Mv
ior me still to break her heart over it” “
Then I am to be your scape-goat,” I
said.
“You are my son,” he answered, “and re- j
ligion itself teaches ns that the sins of the
fathers are visited on the children. I leave
the matter in your hands. But only an- .
swer one question: Could you show your
face amoug your own friends if this were
known?”
I knew very well I could not. Mv
father a fraudulent steward of Julia’s
droperty! Then farewell forever to all
that had made my life happy. We were a
proud family—proud of our rank, and of
our pure blood: above all, of our honor,
which had never been tarnished by a
breath. I could not yet bear to believe
that my father was a rogue. He himself
was not so lost to shame that he oould
meet my eye. I saw there was no escape
from it—l must marry Julia.
“Well," I said at last, “as you sav, the
matter is in my hands now, and I must
make the best of it Good-night, sir.”
Without a light I went np to my own 1
room, where the moon that had shone npon
me in my last night’s ride, was gleaming
brightly through the window. I intended
to reflect and deliberate, bnt I was worn
out I flung myself down on the bed. bnt
t coma not nave remained awaxe ror a sin
gle moment. I fell into a deep sleep which
lasted till morning.
CHAPTER XXT
TWO LETTERS.
When I awoke my poor mother was sit
ting beside me, looking very ill and sor-
Towful. She had slipped a pillow under
my heat}, and thrown a shawl across me.
I got up with a newildred brain, and a gen
eral sense of calamity, which I could not
pearly define.
“Martin,” she said, “your father has
gone by this morning’s boat to Jersey. Ee
says you know why; but he has left this
note for you. Why have you not been in
bed last night?"
“Never mind, mother," I answered, as I
tore open the note, which was carefully
sealed with my father's private seal. He
had written it immediately after I left him
* _ _ 11:30 p. m.
My Son : To-morrow morning 1 shall run
over to Jersey tor a few days, until this sad
business of yours Is settled. I cannot bear
to meet your changed face. You make no
allowance for vonr father. Half mv ex
penses nave oeen incurred in educating you;
you ought to consider this, and that you owe
more to me, as your father, than to any one
else. But in these days parents receive little
honor from their children. When all is set
tled. write to me at 1 rlnce’s Hotel. It rests
upon you whether I over see Guernsey
again. Yor wretched father,
Richard Dobree.
“Can I see it?" asked my mother, hold
ing ont her hand.
“No, nevermind seeing it," I answered;
“it is about Julia, yon know. It would
only trouble you. ”
“ Captain Carey’s man brought a letter
from Julia just now," sho said, taking it
from her pocket; “he said there was no an
swer. "
Her eyelids we:c still red from weeping,
and her voice faltered as if she might
break out into sobs any moment. I took
the letter from her, but I did not open it
"Yon want to bo alone to-read it?” sbe
said. "Oh, Mart n! if you can change
your mind, and save us all from this great
trouble, do it. for my fake?”
"If 1 can 1 will," i answered; "but every
thing is very hard upon me, mother.”
She cordd not guess how hard, and if I
could help it she should never know. Now
I was fuily awake, the enormity of my
father s dishonesty and his extreme ego
tism weighed heavily upon me. I cornu
not view his Conduct in a fairer light than I
had done in my amazement the night be
fore. It grew blacker as I dwelt upon it.
And now he was off to Jersey, shirking the
disagreeable consequences of his own de
linquency. I knew how he would spend
his tune there. Jersey is no retreat for the
penitent.
As soon as my mother was gone I opened
Julia's letter. It began;
My Dear Martin: 1 know all now. Jo
hanna has told mo. When you spoke to me
so hurriedly and unexpectedly this afier
ucon, 1 could not bear to hear another Word.
But now I am calm, and I can think it all ovet
quite quietly.
It is an infatuation, Martin. Johanna says
to as well as I, and she is never wrong. It is a
theer impossibility that yon, in your sober
tenses, should love a strange person, whose
very name you do not know, better than yon do
oi“, your cousin, yonr sister, your fiancee,
“hornyou have known all your file, and loved,
1 am quite sure of that, with a very true affec
lion.
It vexes me to write about that person in
mv connection with yourself. Emma spoke
henn her last letter tromSark; not at an
in refi-reuco to you, however. She Is so com
pletely of a lower class that it would never
enter Emma's head that you could see any
thing in her. She said there was a rumor
ar.oat that 1 ardif was about to marry the
girl you had leen atteudhip, and that every
body in the island regretted it. She said it
would lea mesalliance for him, Tardif!
What, then, would It be for \ou, a Dobree?
No; It Is a delusion, an iniiuuatlon, which
will quickly pass uwuy. I cunuot believe you
arc so weak as to be taken in by mere pretti
ness without character; and this person—l
do not 6a v fo jmrehly, Martin—has no char
acter, no name. Were you Tree you could
not marry her. There is a my6terv about
her, and mystery usually means shame. A
I obree could not make an adventure 69 his
wife. Then you have seen so little of her.
Three times, since the week you were there
in March! NN hat is that compared to the
years we have spent together." It is impos
f hie that m your heart of hearts you should
love her more than tnc.
1 have been trying to think what you would
do if all is broken ul between us. We tou.d
not keep this a secret in Guernsey, uni
everybody would blame you. 1 will not ask
you to think of my mortification at bcina
Jilted, for peop'e would call it that. I oohld
outlive that, liut what are you to do? We
cannot go on aauin as we used to do. 1 must
speak plainly at out It. Your practice is not
sufficient to maintain the family in a proper
position for the Dobroes; and if Igo to live
alone at the new house, as 1 must do, what
is to become of uiy uncle and aunt;* 1 have
oft n considered this, and have been glad
the difficulty was settled by our marriage.
Now everything will be unsettled again.
I d.d not lntond to say anything about my
•elf; but ob, Martiu! you do not know the
blank that It will be to me. . 1 have been so
happy siuce you asked me to be your wife.
It was so pleasant to think that I should live
all my life in Guernsey, and yet not be
doomed to the empty, vacant lot of an un
married woman. You think thut perhaps
Johanna la happy single* She Is content—
good wo ecu ought to bo content; but 1 tell
you 1 would gladly exchange her, content
went for Aunt Dofiroe'a troubles, with her
pride and nappines* In you. 1 hare seen her
troubles clearly, and I say, Martin, 1 would
giva all Johanna's calm, colorless peace for
her delight lu her son.
Then 1 cannot give up tbe thought of out
oome, just Cntihen and so pretty. It was tc
plc.-sant this afternoon. be ore you came in
W;thj-onr dreadful thunderbolt. I was
thinking what a good wife 1 would be to you,
and how, in my own bouse, 1 should never
be tempted into those tiresome tempers you
have seen In me sometimes. It was your
father often who made me angry, and 1 vis
ited It upon you, because you are so good
tempered. That was foollsn of me. You
30nld not know how much I love you, bow
my life is bound up in you, or you would
lave been proof against that person in Sark.
I think it right to tell you all this now,
though it is not in my nature to make pro
fessions and demonstrations of my love,
rhink or me, of yourself, of your poor
You were never se.flsh, and you
aan do noble things. I do not say it would
ae noble to marry me. but it would be a no
ale thing to conquer an ignoble passion.
How could Martin Dobree fall in love with
an unknown adventuress?
I shall remain in the bouse all day to-mor
row, and if you can oome to see me. feeling
that thia has been a dream of folly from
which you bare awakened, I will not ask
you to own it. That you come at all will be
a sign to me that you wish it forgotten and
blotted out between us, as if it had never
been.
With true, deep love for you, Martin, be
lieve me still your affectionate Jena.
I pondered over Julia’s letter as I
dressed. There was not a word of re
sentment in it It was fall of affectionate
thought for us aIL Bnt what reasoning!
I bad not known Olivia so long as I had
known her, therefore I could not love Jer
as truly!
A strange therefore!
I had scarcely had leisnre to thiny 0 1
Olivia in the hurry and anxiety of the last
twenty-four hours. Bnt now “that person
In Sark,” the “unknown "adventuress,” pre
sented herself very vividly to my mind.
Know her! I felt a9 if I knew every tone
of her voice and every expression of her
face, yet I longed to know them more inti
mately. The note she had written to me a
few weeks ago I coaid repeat word for
word, and the handwriting seemed far
more familiar to me even than Julia’s.
There was no doubt my love for her wa6
very different from my affection for Julia;
xnd if it was an infatuation, it was the
sweetest, most exquisite infatuation that
could ever possess me.
ITO BE OOKTIytTED.I
A Sportive Frenchman.
A Frenchman was lately traveling in
the United States, and having an eye to
business, waa investigating our institu
tions, amusements, and Commercial en
terprises.
Among them he was introduced to the
jolly Western pastime called poker—a
new game to him. Nevertheless, he
proved to he an apt tcholar, and was
soon “bluffing” with courage quite as
tonishingC
Monsieur, however, was an easy goose
to pluck, and, as a natural conse
quenoe, in a short time was a heavy
loser. He was much disgusted, and in
formed his friends:
“I no play no more—w’at you call
zie?”—pushing his cane backward and
forward, “zat you call pokaire. I no
wish more to hear ze name of pokaire
in my two ears.”
No amount of assurance of better
luck would swerve him, and he was
most sensitive to any remark suggestive
of the game.
The fire one day at his hotel would
not burn. Calling a servant he insisted:
“I want you make ze fire burn, make
it hot.”
The servant replying, “Yes, sir, I will
give it a good stiring np with the poker,”
was frightened out of his wits by having
the Frenchman fly into a rage, and push
him out unceremoniously, veiling:
“You rascal! if you say pokaire to ms.
f will cut your throat off close to your
head.”
Ihe servant did not again encounter
him until the following moraine, when,
not in the best of humor, he enquired the
wav to the breakfast room.
“Zis ze way to ze breakfast ? ” he ask
ed.
No, air; that door leads to an ante
room. This way please.”
The Frenchman was furious.
“Mon Di-ou! ” he cried, I quit ze
house. I aak for make ze fire to
burn, and yon say you want pokaire.
1 ask forze breakfav, and y6u show to
me ze ante-room. I want no more ante;
I want no more pokaire.”
He hurriedly paid hi-i bill, and left,
thoroughly convinced that every one in
America paid more attention to poker
than to any other branch of business.
A Puzzling Question.
Some persons seem wholly unable to
Jope with scientific facts, their inability
being doubtless due largely to circum
stances and their education. For hun
dreds of generations men were puz
zled by the.same problem which now
teems so simple* to Us. A teacher in a
western, county in Canada, while making
calls among the people came into con
versation with a fanner’s wife from Ver
mont, who had taken np her residence
in the “backwoods.” Of coursej the
.school and former teacher came in for
criticism, and the old lady, in speaking
of his predecessor, asked:
“Wa’al, master, what do you think he
learned the scholars?”
"I couldn’t say, ma’am. , Pray, what
did he teach?”
“Wa’al, he told ’em thia ’ere arth was
round; what do you think of such stuff?”
Unwilling to come under the category
of the ignorant, the teacher evasively re
marked :
“It does seem strange, but still there
are many learned, men who teach those
things. ”
“Wa’al,” says she, “if the earth is
round, and • goes round, what holds it
up?”
“Oh, these learned men sav that it goes
round the sun, and the sun holds it up by
virtue of attraction.”
The old lady lowered her specs, and
responded with this poser:
“Wa’al, if these high larnt men sez the
sun holds up the arth, I should like to
know what holds the arth up when the
sun goes down?”
A Pleasing Possibility.
“Rule of the oifice, sir—patients will
please pay before taking gas." -
“Why not after?"
“It’s mvkwaiirl collecting in case of
—failure to restore respiration."— Puck.
Petty has become s.-arce and high since
the recent glass-butakiug storms in the West
One druggist in llhuois has sold QUO pounds
within a tsw days.
DOG AT SUNRISE
FATE OF A CONFEDERATE SPY
AT CHATTANOOGA.
Captured by the Federal) and Be
trayed by a Deserter—Una
vailing Attempt to Deny
liis Identity.
When Bragg had liosencran3 shnt np
in Chattimoogu, says an ex-Coafederate
in the Detroit Free Pre*, there were four
of us scouts from headquarters who
penetrated the Federal lines almost daily.
Every move made was discovered and re
ported, and most of them checkmated.
About a month before Grant's arrival,
when things were at their worst with
Rosencntns, a scout named Will Rossmore,
who was rather new in the business, hav
ing been detailed only a few weeks, was
tent in to try and ascertain certain things.
The Federal were ke.ping a sharper
lookout than formerly, and the young
man was instiucted to exercise all possi
ble caut.on and take no extra risks. He
rode boldly into the city on an old horse,
claiming to have been commissioned by
certain refugees to look after their prop
erty. He was, of course, placed under
arrest and taken before the officer of the
day He was ready for the ordeal. He
had the names of three citizens who had
fled the place: he pretended a lameness
which incapacited him for military ser
vice; he had the talk and actions*of a
country lout. He was questioned in the
closest manner, and when nothing could,
be made of him he was allowed to go his
way. It is likely he would have secured
his information and passed out in safety,
but before he had been in the town three
hours an unfortunate thing occurred.
He was seen and recognized by a deserter
from our lines—a man who had formerly
mesicd with him and, of course, knew
him well.
The deserter saw Rossmore without be
ing seen himself, and at once went to
headquarters and gave him away. When
brought face to face at headquarters the
scout must have realized that his doom was
sealed, but he did not yield his life with
out an effort. He denied his identity.
He offered to se id for people to prove he
was what he claimed to be, and he chal
lenged the officer (I think it was Rosen
crans himself) to send for a surgeon to
inspect his lameness and pronounce upon
it. While his bold speech staggered the
deserter, the man could not doubt his
own eyes, and he persisted that Ross
more was a spy from Bragg’s headquar
ters.
“Was Rossmore lame?” asked the offi
cer.
“No, sir.”
“But this man is a cripple for life.”
“Well, I don’t know how that comes.
lam certain, however, that he is the
man.
“If the surgeon says I have been lame
for years will you admit that you are mis
taken?” coolly asked the scout.
“Why, I’ll have to. Will Rossmore
was as sound as I am. ”
“Very well, General, send for the sur
geon,” quietly remarked the scout.
He must have realized that the fraud
would be detected, but it seemed to be
his only hope of bluffing the deserter
down. If he had a thought that the
surgeon would not be sent for it was
quicKly dispelled. The General felt
that it was a serious case, and he wanted
bottom facts. A surgeon came, Ross
more stripped off, and after a brief ex
amination the medical man announced
his opinion that the scout was sham
ming. The little toe on his right foot
had been cut off at the joint in boyhood.
The deserter had seen the foot several
times, and now he suddenly remembered
the stump.
When RossmoTe saw that he was
doomed he owned up to his identity, and
pointing his finger at the man who had
betrayed him, he said:
1 ‘Lew W amer, listen to me! Through
you I shall hang, but sooner or later my
death will be avenged upon you! Gen
eral, I am ready.”
He was led away to beia-ged at sun
rise next morng.
Warner was from Tennessee, in the
neighborhood of Knoxville. In August,
1865, he returned there to settle down,
and one evening, before he had been home
two weeks, someone fired a bullet
through his heart a3 he traversed the
back streets.
i ><
An Eastern Potentate's Household.
Muzzafer Eden, the lately deceased
Ameer of Bokhara—a khanate which con
tains scarcely 2,000,000 inhabitants—had
at his death one of the largest domestic
establishments in Asia. His household
consisted of seven sons, nineteen daugh
ters, 280 wives, 2SO female slaves, ten
female barbers, nine female cooks, four
midwives, twenty-two needle-women,
and fifty washerwomen. Among his
male attendants were three astrologers,
six private physicians, seven chaplains,
and forty-four eunuchs. The new Ameer,
Abdul Ahad, has instituted a drastic re
form in the palace expenditure. He has
pensioned his father's wives with a’ free
dwelling and a daily sum of two rupees
apiece. This may seem a small sum for
the widow of a monarch, but in Bokhara
it is regarded as ahand-ome maintenance.
The new ruler has the immemorial privi
lege of dismissing all his predecessor’s
servants, but Abdul Ahad, from motives
of economy, has prefered to retain rather
than pension the crowd of his father’s
domestic officials.
Tlie Magnitude of London.
Few persons, even those who reai our
figures, have a definite idea of the size
of London, England. The city contains
within its corporate limits 687 square
miles, and almost 5,0C0,000 inhabitants.
There are on the average 1,000 ships and
9,007 sailors in its port each day. "There
is a birth every four minutes, a death
every six minutes, and on an average of
eight accidents each day in its streets,
which in length equal about 9,fi00 miles.
Its liquor shops, if placed in a row,
would cover a distance of seventy-five
miles, and there are about 200,0C0
habitual criminals put under arrest each
year. Its pcstoftice delivers within its
district about 250,000,000 letters each
year. It conta ns more Roman Catholics
than Rome itself, more Jews than the
whole of Pale-tine, more Irish th an Dub.
lin, and more Scotchmen than E and inburg.
Dunned on a Cuff.
An epistle of a novel character passed
through the post office yesterday. The
novelty consisted in the material'upon
which it was written, which was a
getleman’B linen cuff. There was noth
ing unusual in ths contents, which were
simply a dun, couched in the following
language: “Please cill around and pay
vour wash 'bill. Y'our Laundry-man."
The cuff was adorned with a two-cent
•tamp, which will carry a letter safely,
no matter on what it is written. Should
the recipient not feel inclined to pay, it
is suggested that he give big note,
writteu on a cuff or collar. It might rfot
be as durable as one on buckskin, but
would auswer all purposes. —pjrtland
Ort genian. ~ - * — —....
ft NEW ADVERTISEMENTS.
CULM, HifiKESSOH
BROAD AND THOMAS STS., ATHENS, GA.
IDE-A-XaSieS T3ST
Cutlery. G-mels, Pistols, Etc.
Have a large stock suitable for the trade ot Middle Georri*
invite an inspection by visitors to Athens and orders bv iV*
parties elsewhere. J ‘ u in
fflehir
D. a BACON, President. M. F. AMOROUS, Gen’l
hi uib an
Mil &IHM
KILN DRY, DRESSED AND MATCHED
FLOORING
CEILING, SHINGLES AND LATHS.
B®.WKITE FOR PRICES. The best and cheapest. Yu
Humphries and E. T. V. & Ga. R. R.
OFFICE AS MAKEETTA. ST.
ATLANTA: GEORGIA
MILBURN WAGON Ctf
39, 41 and 43 Decatur Street, ATLANTA. CA
/ VV 1 m/C K /
\ / \ I \ TL
/vk \ f V M V \ w ■
i \ V/\ \ J
THE LARGEST STOCK OF
Carriages. Phaetons, Buggies, Farm and Spring
WAGONS in the South will be fouDd at their warerooms. Call and see them beta
buying. The best goods are always the cheapest. It is not necessary to break klo
penitentiary to get to work on our goods.
H. L. ATWATER, Manager.
ALFRED BAKER, President. JOSEPH S. BEAN, Cats
Augusta Savings Bank!
811 Broad Street, Augusta, Georgia.
'■——O'
CASH ASSETS f300,000.00 | SURPLUS „.|50,K1l
Transacts a general deposit and discount business and allows interest on depoatil
five dol.ars to two thousand dollars. Accounts of banks, bankers and merchants recent
on favorable terms.
SPECIAL ATTENTIQN GIVEN TO COLLECTIONS.
We always have money on band to loan, and afford special accommodationste a
customers. We buy and sell Bonds and Stocks, and are always happy to give infornok
DIRECTORS:-Alfred Baker, James A. Loflin, William Schweigert,E. R. Scbneid
Edgar R. Derry, Joseph S. Bean, W. B. Young, Eugene J. O’Connor, Jules Rival, J.
Bredenberg. * mch*
PREMIUM TINWARE
BUY NO OTHER
Look for Stamp.
Don’t buy shoddy machine made Tinware when you can get a first class srtid
Our Tinware is for sale by country dealers generally. Send for prices on Stoves *
Everything in Our Line. We keep a magnificent stock and our prices are low.
mhl9 dc TOITS3, -A-tliezis. Q+
COMPLETE OUTFITS OF MACHINERY
FURNISHED AT MAN UFACTURERS’ LOWEST PRICES
:Or Mills, Furniture, Sssb^W
mi her Wood Work. Also Circular
iFmery 1 Wheels? Belting ’ Finished
- —iijfeiSPWj. ulleys ’ ® an & ers B pa ” n & s - j’ p 4
' _ jail kinds of Metal and Wood Work.
THE COST OF GEM WIRE PICKET FENCE ]
No. 1 to No. C.—Pickets undressed, dressed or fancy, full sx2x4 ft., three to
free from flaws or knots, pointed and painted, closely woven, with 10 No. 12 g AI
steel wires, put up in rolls of 100 feet, each from $5 to sl4. Discounts on large
Price of Complete Outfit for making this fence ONLY $125. for we f ur UJ‘jErrAS
FENCE LOOM, WIRE CUTTERS. 1 PICKET POINTER
The only perfect fence loom on the market, and is fully patented. We protee* {
sers and Agents in their territory, pay them a liberal commission on any j
fence they may sell for us, and make no charge for farm or city and county rig
orders for Fencing'Or Machines filled promptly.
J. P. HODGE & CO., Southern Agents.
mchlfl 47 and 49 South Broad St., ATLANTA^,
THEO. MARKWALTER
Steam Marble and Granite Work
Broad St. near Lower Market, Augusta, Ga.
MONUMENTS, TOMBSTONE
AND MARBLEWORK GENERALLY, made to order A
lection always on band ready for delivery. Iron fencing for g I% •
lota for sale.
Every T 9?
and. Warranted.