Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

VOL. XIV. GIVING IITMARRIAGE. Come, tot us sit together for a space, * In this still room remote from friendly mirth. Afar from lijrht and music, face to face. Each unto each the dearest thina on earth. Love, they have left us, our two bonny brides. Our tall, grave girl, our winsome, laughing pet; Ah me! Flow wide the chasm that divides Our life from theirs; how lar their feet are set From the calm path they trod with us so long. How we shall miss them, we who loved them CO, On winter nights when winds arc blowing strong. On summer mornings, when the roses blow. But—happy but—we still clasp hand in hand. Bye still meets eye and true hearts unaer- j stand. Love, they have left us empty of the mirth That cheered our homestead while they so journed here; Yea, they have left us lonely on the earth. Lone, but together, solitude most dear; AH. God. go with them to the stranger nests. That love has built for them and theirs to come. CkK* keep all warm and living in their hreat Love’s holy tinme. the altar-fire of home. Dear, they have left us; we no longer hold The first, best place, however leal each heart. Yet have we treasure left, refined gold. Love's sterling ore, without its baser part, She wide old house has lost its nest.ing birds, ut we are left. Ah, love, what need or word 6? —All the Year Round. Dark Days. CHAPTER m. * "the wages or sin.” Morning! No books; no idle, listless hours for ine to-day. Plenty to do, plenty to think about; all sorts of arrangements to make. Farewell to my moody, sullen life. Farewell to my aimless, selfish existence. Henceforward i should have something worth living for—worth dying for, if needs be! Philippa was coming tome to-day; coming In grief, it is true; coining as a sis ter comes to a brother. Ah! after all the weary, weary waiting, I shall see her to-day —to-morrow, every day! Although Philippa would grace my poor cottage for one night only, I had a thousand preparations to make for her comfort. For tunate')* 1 had a jpnre room, and, moreover, a furnished one. Not that l should hare troubled, when I went into my seclusion, about such superfluity as a guest-chamber; but as it happened 1 had bought the house •and the furniture complete; so I could offer DW welcome guest fair accommodation for the night. I summoned my stolid man. 1 told him that ray sister was coming on a visit to me; that sue would sleep here to-night, but that most likely we should go away to-morrow, lie could stay and look afier the house un til I returned or et him instructions wlmt to do with it. William manifested no sur prise. Had Ito and him to make preparati- s for the coming of my wife and five children, he would have considered it all a part of the day’s work, and would have done his best to meet tny requirements. He set to work in his imperturbable, methodical, hut handy way to get Philippa’s room In trim. As soon as this was done, and the neglected chamber made cosy and warm-looking, I told him to be r ow a horse ar.d cart somewhere, and fecli the luggage from Airs. Wilson’s. He was to nr-ntion no names; simply to say that he had come for the luggage, ami to ask if the lady had mnv message to send. William was away about two hours; then he made his appearance with some box s. I was delighted to see these tangible signs that Philippa meant to keep her promise. Till that moment 1 had been tioub ed by b< inething like tlie doubt that after all she might, upon cilm reflection, rescind the resolution formed in her excitement. Now her coming scene and to be a ceitainty. Nevertheless, William brought no mes-* sage; so there was nothing for ine to do but wait patiently until she chose to cross my threshold. Although my pleasing labors of love were ended, I was not left idle. Tncre was an other task to be done to-day. 1 set my teeth and sat down, thinking quietly as to the way In which ll might be best performed. To night I meant to stand face to face with that black-hearted scoundrel known as Sir Mervyn Fcrrand I I consulted the time table. His letter named no particular hour: but I saw that if he carried out his expressed intention of be ing here to-night, there was but one tram by which he c mid coine; there was but cue way from Koding to the house at which Philippa had been staying, lie meant to walk, ids letter said ; this might be in order to escape observation. The train was due at R ding at seven o'clock. The weather was cod; a man would naturally walk fast Mrs. Wilson’s house must be four miles from the station. L*t me start from there just before the train arrives, and I should probably meet lihn about half way on his journey. It would be dark, but I should know him. I should know him among a thousand. There on the open lonely road Sir Mervyn Ferraml, coming gavlv, ami in ■his worldly cynicism curtain of cajoling, buying off. or in some other way silencing the woman who hail in an evil day tru.st.ed to his Junior and love, would meet, not her, but the man who from the first had sworn that a wrong to Philippa should be more lhaa a wroi.g to himself! He would meet this man and be called to account. 1 designed no murderous attack. But it was my Intention to stop the man on his path; to conf; out him and tell him that his villainy was known to me; that Philippa toad fled to me fur aid; that she was now in my custody; and that I, who stood in the position of tier brother, demanded the so called satisfaction which, by the old-fash ioned code of honor, was due from the m in who Jiad ruthlessly betrayed awoman. Well 1 knew that it was probable he would laugh at me—tell me that thedaysof dueling wear' over, and refuse to grant my request. Then I meant to see if insults could warm ids noble blood; if my hand on his cheek could bring about the result which I desired. If this failed, I would follow him abroad, cane him and spit upon him in public places. Truly, as I said, I had now plenty to live fori The hours went by, yet Philippa came not. I grew restless and uneasy as the dusk began to make the road, ap which I gazed almost continually, dim and indistinct. When the short winter’s day was over, and the long dark night had fairly begun, my rest essness turned into fear. I walked outof my house and paced my garden to and fro. I blsm and myself for having yielded so light ly to Philippa’s wish—her command rather —that I should on no account fetch her. But then, whenever did I resist a wish, •ouch less a command, of hers? Oh, that I had been firm this once! The snow-storm of the previous evening had not lasted Jong—not long enough to thoroughly whiten the world. The day had been fine and frosty, but 1 knew that the wind had changed since the sun w ent down. It was warmer, a chance which I felt sure presaged a heavy downfall of snow or rain. There was a m<w>n, a fitful m°on; for cloud® were (1 ring across it, dark clouds, which I guessed would soon gather coherence and volume, and veil entirely that bright face, which now only showed itself at irregular intervals. The minutes were pacing away. I grew nervous and excited. Why does she not come? My hope had been to see my poor girl safely housed before I started to execute roy other task. Why does she not come? Tune, precious time, is slipping by! In the hope of meeting her, I walked for some dis tance up the road. "Why does she delay?” I groaned. Even now I should be on my way to Boding, or I may miss my prey. Heavens! can It be that she is waiting to see th' man price more? NevftJ j perish me mougnti But, all the same, every fiber in rr.y body quivered at the bare supposition of such a thing. I could bear the suspense no longer. For the hundredth time I glanced at my watch. It wanted but ten minutes to seven o’clock, and that hour I had resoiv.*d to start from Mrs. Wilson’s, on my way to Boding. Yet now 1 dared not leave my own house. Any moment might bring Pnilippa. What would she think if 1 was not there to receive and welcome her? Fiv* more precious minutes gone! I stamped in my rage. After all, I can only do one-haif of mv task; the sweet, but no; the stem half. Shall 1, indeed, do either? The train must now be close to Boding. In an hour everything may be lost. The man will see her before she leaves the house. Ho will persuade her. She will listen to hfa words; for did he not once lovelier? Ho must have loved her! Alter all, he bruko the iaws for the sake of possessing her, and —cursed thought!—she loved him then; and she is but a woman! So I tortured myself until my slate of mind grew unbearable. At nil hazards I must prevent Ferr&nd from meeting P.iiiip pa. Oh, why had she not come as sue promised? Could it be she was detained against her will? In spite of her uninter ested manner, 1 distrusted the woman I had seen last night. It is now past seven o'clock* Philippa’s house, from which I had reckon ed my time, was nearly three miles away. I must give up mv sc.u*me of vengeance. I must go in search of Philippa, if I do not meet her I must call at Mrs. Wilson’s, find out what a- tains her, and if needful bear her away by ii ce. By this time my steps had brought me back to my own house. I called Wiliam, and told Dim 1 was going to walk up tne road and meet my expected guest. If by any chance I should miss her, he was to welcome her on my behalf, and tell her the reason for my absence. "Best take a lantern, sir,” said William; "moon’ll be hidden, and them roads is pre vious rough.” "I can’t be bothered with that great horu affair,*' I “aid. rather tet.ilv. ’Take the little one—the bull’s eye—that’s better than nothing,” said William. To humor him I put it Into my pocket. I ran at the top of my speed to the house at which I had last night left Philippa. It took me nearly half nn hour getting there. I rang the beli impetuously. The door was opened by a maidservant. 1 Inquired for Mrs. Farmer, knowing that Philippa had passed under this name to all except her hostess. To my surprise I was told that she had left the house, on foot and alone, some little while ago. The maid believed she was not going to return, as her luggage had that morning been sent for. The first effect of tills intelligence was to cause me to blame my haste. I must have missed her; no doubt passed heron the road. No; such a thing was impossible. The way was a narrow one. The moon still gave some light If I had met Philippa, 1 must have seen her. She mu*t have seen me, and would then have stopped me. She could not have gone tlie way 1 came. As I turned from the house 1 became aware that a great and sudden change had c mie over the n giit It seemed to me that, even in the few minutes which I had spent in considering what to do, the heavy clouds had banked ami massed together. It was all but pitch-dark; so dark that I paused, and drawing from mv pocket the lantern with which William's foresight had provid ed me, managed after several trials to light it. Then, impatient at the delay, I sped up the road. I was now almost facing the wind. All at once, sharp and quick, 1 felt the blinding snow on my face. The wind moaned through the leafless branches on either side of the road. The snow-flakes whirled madly here and there. Even in my excitement I was able to r* adze the fact that never before had 1 seen in E )gland so fierce a snow-storm, or one which came on so suddenly. And, like myself, Philippa was abroad, and exposed to its full fuiy. Heavens! she might lose her way, and wander about all night This fear quickened my steps. 1 forced my way on through the mad storm. For the time all thought of Sir Mervyn Ferrandand vengeance left my heart. All I now wanted was to find Philippa; to lead her home, and see her safe beneath my roof. "Surely,” I said, as I battled along, "site cannot have gone much further.” I kept a sharp look-out—lf, indeed, it can be called a look-out; for the whirling enow made everything, save what was within a few feat of me. invisible. I strained my ears to catch the faintest cry or other sound. I went on, flashing my lantern first on one ami then on the other side of the road. My dread was that Philippa, utterly unable to light against the white tempest, might be crouching under one of the banks, and if so I might pass without seeing her or even at tracting her attention. My doing so on such a night as this might mean her death. Oh, why had sue not come as promised? Why had she gone to meet the nan who had so foully wronged her? After what had happened, she could not,dan and not love him. And for a dreary comfort I recalled the ut ter bitterness of her arc nt last night when she turned to me and said, "Basil, did you ever hate a man?” No, she could not love him! I halted, irresolute, in the center of the road. Instinctively I beat my hands to gether to promote circulation. I had left my home hurriedly, and had made no pro* vision fur the undergoing of such an ordeal as this terrible, unprecedented snow-storm itifl cted. In pile of the speed at which I had traveled, m hands and feet were grow ing numbed, my face smarted with the cold. Heaven help ine to decide aright, whether to go on or turn back 1 The decision was not left to me. Sudden ly. close at hand, 1 heard a wild peal, a scream of laughter which made my blood run cold. Swift from the whining, tossing, drifting snow emerged a tall gray figure. It swept past me like t ie wind; but as it pass ed me 1 knew that my quest was ended— that Philippa was found! Site vanished in a second, before the ter ror which rooted me to the spot had passed away. Then I turned ami, fast as 1 could run, followed iter, crying as I went, "Pnilip pa 1 Philippa!” 1 soon overtook her; but so dark was the night that I was almost touching her before I saw her shadowy, ghost like form. I threw my arms round her and held her. She struggled violently in my grasp. "P.dlippa, dearest! it Di, Basil,” I said, bending close to her ear. I The sound of my voice seemed to calm her, or I should rather say she ceased to struggle. ‘Thank neaven, I have found you!” I said. "Let. us get back as soon as possible.” "Back! No! Go on, go on!” she exclaim ed. "On, on, on, up the road yet awhile— on through the storm, t hrough t lie snow—on till you see what I have left behind me! On till you sec the wages of sin—the wages of sin!” Her words came like bullets from amltral lense. Through the night I could see her face gleaming whiter than the snow on her hoo<i. I could see her great, fixed, dark eyes full of nameless horror. "Dearest, be calm,” I said, and strove to take her hands in mine. As I tried to gain possession of her right hand something fell from it, and, although the road was now coated with snow, a me tallic sound rang out as it touched the ground. Mechanically I stooped and pick ed up the fallen object As I did so Philippa with a wild cry wrested herself from the one hand whose numbed grasp still sought to retain her, and with a frenzied reiteration of the words, "The wages of sin!” fled from me, and was lost in the night Even as l rushed in trarsni* I shuddered THOMSON, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, APRIL ‘29, 1885. as the sense of feeling told me what thing it was I had picked up from the snowy ground. It was a small pistol! Cold as the touch of the metal must have been, it seem ed to burn me like a coal of tire. Impulsive ly, thoughtlessly, as I ran I hurled the wea pon from u\e, far, far away. Why should it have been in Philippa's hand this night? I ran madly on, but not for long. My foot caught in a stone, amt I fell, half stunned and quite breathless, to the ground. It was some minutes before I recovered myself sufficiently to once more stand erect. Philip pa must have obtained a start which, cni pled with her frenzied speed, almost precluded the possibility of my overtaking her. Moreover, a strange, uncontrollable im pulse swayed me. The touch of that deadly weapon still burned my hand. Philippa’s words still rang in my ears. “On, on, on, up the road yet awhile!” she had cried. What did she mean? What had been done to-night? I must retrace my steps. I must seel I must know! Philippa is flying through the cold, dark, deadly night; but her frame is but the frame of a woman. She must soon grow exhausted, perhaps sink senseless on the road. Nevertheless, the dreadful fears which are growing in my mind must be set at rest; then I can resume the pursuit. At all cost I must know what has happened! Once more I turned and faced the storm. Heavens! anything might happen on such a night a® this! 1 went on ami on, flashing my lantern as 1 went on the center and each side of the road. I went some distance past that sp >t where I judged that Philippa had swept by me. Then suddenly with a cry of horror I stopped short. At my very feet, in the m.ddle of the highway, illumined by the disk of light cast by my lantern, lay a whit ened mass, and as my eye fell upon it I knew only too well the meaning of Philip pa's wild exclamation, ’The wages of siu I The wages of sin!” CHARTER IV. AT ALL COST, SLEEP! D*ad! Before I kneeled beside him and, after unbuttoning his coat, laid my hand on his breast, I knew the man was dead. Be fore I tinned the lantern on his white face 1 knew' who the man was. Sir Mervyn Fer raml had paid for his sin with his life I It need and little professional skill to determine the evse of his death. A bullet fired, it seemed to me, nt close quarters had passed absolutely through the heart. He must have fallen without a moan. Ki ! led, 1 knew, by the hand of the woman he had wronged. It cou ! d not be true! It should not be truo! Yet 1 shuddered as I remembered the pas sion she bad thrown into those words, "Basil, did you ever hate a man?” I gave a low cry of anguish as I remembered how 1 had hurled from me the pistol she had let fail— the very weapon which had done the dread ful deed. Killed by Philippa! Not in a sudden burst of uncontrollable passion, but with deliber ate Intent. She must have gone armed to ureet him. She must have shot him through tne heart; must have seen him fall. Then, •n!y then, the horrible deed which she had wrought must have b *en fully realized I .'non she had turned and fl and from the spot in a frsiZ’. Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl! U t vlv bewildered oy my angs ish, I rose i >m my knees and stood tor a while beside i • corpse. It was in that moment 1 learn how lurch I real v loved the woman who had done this tiling. Over all my grief and horror this love rose paramount. At all cost I must save her—save her from the hands of justice; save her from the fierce elements which her tender frame was even nt this moment braving. Bight or wrong, she was the woman I loved; and I swore 1 would save her from tin* consequences of her crime, even—Heaven help me!—if the accusation, when made, must fall upon my shoulders. Yet it was not the beginning of any scheme to evade justice which induced me to raise the dead body and bear it to the side of the road, where I placed it under the low bank on which the hedge grew. It was the reverence which one pays to death made me do this. I could not leave the poor wretch lying In the very middle of the high way, for the first passer-by to stumble against To-morrow he would, oi course, be found. To-morrow the hue and cry would he out! To-morrow Philippa, my Philippa, would Oh, heavens! never, never, never! So I laid wiiat was left of Sir Mervyn Fer raml reverentially bv the side of the lonely road. I even tried to close his glassy eyes, and I covered his face with his own hand kerchief. Then, with heart holding fear and anguish enough for a lifetime, I turned and went in search of the poor unhappy girl. Where should I seek her? Who knew what her remorse nay have urged her to do? Who kii w whither her horror may have driven her? It needs but to find Philip pa lifeless oil the road to complete the heaviest tale of grief which can be exacted from one man in one short night! I clinch ed my teeth and rushed on. 1 .had the road ali to myself. No one was abroad in such weather. Indeed, few per sons were seen at night in any weather in this lonely p art of the country. I made straight for iny own house. The dismal thought came tome, that unless Philippa kept the road she was lost to me forever. If she strayed to the right or to the left, how on such a night could I po sibly find her? My one hope was, that slip would go straight to my cottage; so thither I made the be-t of my way. If she had not arrived, I must get what assistance I could, and seek for her in the fields to the right and left of the road. It was a dreary comfort to remember that all the ponds and spaces of water were frozen six inches thick! I hesitated a moment when*! reached her late residence. Should I inquire if she had returned thither? No; when morning re vealed the ghastly event of the night, my having done so would awake suspicion. Let me first go home. Home at last. In a moment I shall know the worst I opened the slide of my lantern, which was still alight, and threw the rays on the natli which led to mv door. Mv heart gave a great bound of thankfulness. There on the snow, not yet obliterated by more re cent flakes, were the prints of a small foot, Philippa, as I prayed but.scarcely dared to hope she might, had come straight to my house. Sly man opened the door for me. It was well l had seen those foot-prints, as iny knowledge of Philippa’s arrival enabled me to as-mne a natural air. “My sister has c une?” I asked. "Yes, sir; about a quarter of an hour ago.” “We mi§sed each other on the road. What a night!” I said, throwing off my snow-covered coat. "Where is she now?” I asked. “In the sitting-room, sir.” Then, lower ing his voice, Wi liarn added, “She seemed just about in a tantrum when she found you weren’t at home. I expect we shall find her a hard Jady to please.” William, in spite of his stolidity, occasion ally ventured upon some liberty when ad dressing me. His words greatly surprised me. I forced myself to make some laughing rejoinder; then 1 turned the handle of the door and entered the room in which Philippa had taken refuge. Oh, how my heart throbbed! What would she say to me? What could I, fresh from that dreadful scene, say to her? Would she excuse or palliate, would she simply con fess or boldly justify, her crime? Would she plead her wrongs in extenuation? Would the assert that in a moment of ungovernable rage she had done the deed? No matter what she said; she was still Philippa, and even at the cost of my own life and honor I would save her. Yet as 1 advanced Into the room a shud der ran through mo. Freh to mv mind came the reinemoranc ! of that white face, that still form, lying as I had left it, with the pure white snow falling thickly around it. Philippa was sitting in front of the fire. Her hat was removed her dark hair dis heveled and gleaming wet with the si\ow which had melted in it. She must have seen me enter ami close the door,!but she took no notice. As I approached her she turned her shoulder upon me in a pettish way, and as one who by the action means to signify dis pleasure. I came to her side and stood over her, waiting for her to lo kup and speak first She must speak firstl What can I say, after all that has happened to-night? But she kept a stony silence—kept her eyes still turned from mine. At last I call ed her by her name, and bending down, looked into her face. Its expression was one of sullen anger, and moreover, auger which seemed to deep en as she heard my voice. She made a kind of contemptuous gesture, as it waving me aside. "Philippa,” I said, as stefnly as I could, "speak to me!” I laid my hand upon her arm. She shook it off fiercely, and then started to her feet. "You ask me to speak to you,” she said; "you who have treated me like this l Oh, it is shamefu I shameful! 1 come through storm and snow—come to you, who were to welcome me as a brother! Where are you? Away, your wretched servant tells me. Why are you away? I trusted you! Oh, you are a pretty brother! If you had cared for me or respected me, you would have been here to greet m*. N>\ you are all in a 1 ague—all in a league to ruin me 1 Now lam here, what will you do? Poison me, of course I kill ine, and make away with me, even as that other doctor killed and made away with my poor child? He did 1 I say he did! i saw him do it! 4 A child of shame,* lie said; so, he killed It! All, all, all,—even you—you, whom 1 trusted—leagued against me!” She was trembling with excitement. Her words ran one into the other. It was ns much as I could do to follow them; yet the above is but a brief condensation of what she said. With unchecked volubility she continued to heap reproaches and accusa tions, many of which were of the most ex travagant and frivolous nature, on my head. At last she was silent, and reseated herself in her former attitude; and the sullen, dis contented, ill-used look again settled on her face. And yet, although I, who loved her above nil the world, was the obj ct of her lie ce reproaches, no words I had ns yet listem and to came more sweetly to my ear than these. A great joy swept through me; a tide of re lief lore me to comparative happiness. Whatever dreadful deed the poor girl had that night ace uiplished, she was morally innocent. Pnilippa was not accountable for her actions! She was mad when she broke from my grasp; she was mad now as she sat by my fire, eying mo with m nos *, sus picious glances. She was mad—and inno cent ! llcr manner toward me troubled me but little. It is a well-known peculiarity of the and seaso that, the patient turns with hatred from those who were the nearest and dear est to her. Fils of sullen, stubborn silence, alternating with fierce outburstsof vitupera tion, are the most common e araeterlstics of the mania. Hideous, startling as it is to s*'e the change wrought m the stiff *ivr, tin* malady is by no means of such an la ruling nature as it seems. In fact the iimj u*ity ol cases are treated with perfect si c ess. But all this is professional talk. Again I say that the discovery of Philippa's state of mind*was an burn *nse relief to me. My con science was cleared of a weight which was pressing upon it. L felt braced up to use every effort, and thoroughly justified in fol lowing whatever course I thought best. Moreover, anew relat ionahip w*as now estab lished between I'h.lippa and .myself. For awhile ev ry feeling save one mast he ban ished. We were now doctor and patient. After much persuasion, 1 indue and her to let me feel her puls *. As 1 expected, I found it up nearly to one hundred and twenty. This did not alarm me much, as in the course of my practice I had seen several of these eases. Tin* preliminary treatment was simple as A DC; at all cost sleep must be obtained. Fortunately, I had a well-stocked medi cine-chest. In a few minutes I had prepared the strongest dose of opium which I dared to administer. Ju such acase as the present I knew that no driblets would avail; sol measured out no less than sixty drops of laudanum. Sleep the girl must have. That poor seething, boil ng bra n mil l by artifi cial means be forced to rest for hours. After that rest I should be able to say wiiat chance there was of saving life ami reason. But preparing a dose of medicine, and making a patient like this take it, arc two different things. I tried every art, every persuasion. I implored and commanded. I threatened and insisted. Philippa was ob durate. Pooreoull she knew I meant to poison her. On my part, I knew that unless •she swallowed that narcotic to-night, her case was all but hopeless. I rested for awhile; then I sent for luke warm water. After some resistance she suffered ine to bathe her throbbing temples. The refreshing coolness which followed the operation was so grateful to her that she let me repeat the action again and again. A soft and more contented look settled on her beautiful face. I seized the moment. Once more I pressed the portion upon her. This time successful ly. My heart trembled with joy as I saw her swallow the drug. Now she might be saved! I still continued the comforting laving of her temples, and waited until the drug took its due effe ct. By and by that momentcame. The large dark eyes closed, the weary head sank heavily on my shoulder, and I knew that Philippa had entered upon a term of merciful oblivion. I waited until her sleep was sound as the sleep of death; then I summoned my man. I had already told him that my sister was very ill. Between us we bore her to her room and laid her on the bed. I loosened her dress, cut the w< t boots from her cold feet, did all I could to promote warmth and such comfort as was possible under the cir cumstances. Then 1 left her. sleeping that heavy sleep which I prayed might last un broken for hours, and hours, and hours. CHAPTER V. A WHITE TOMB. From the moment when the true state of Pni ippa’s mind flashed upon me, to the nr incut when I loft her sleepingthat heavy sleep, I had little time to think of anything else than the best means of saving her life, and, if possible, her reason. True, through out the whole of my operations to effect this end, a dim sort of horror prevaded me—a recollection of the chastly obj *ot which lay on the. roadside, som j three miles from us; but it was not until I turned from my pa tient’s door that the terrible situation in which she was placed presented itself tome In ail its dread entirety. Half broken-heart ed, I threw myself wearily into my chair, and covered my far * with my hands. Any hope of removing Philippa—there, put it in plain words-—any hope of flight, for days, even weeks, was vain. Let every thing go as well as Cali be in such cases, the girl must be kept in seclusion and qu.et for nt least a fortnight or three weeks. I groan ed as I thought of what would hap)>en if Pill lppa was arrested and carried before the magistrates, accused of the awful crime. From that moment until the day of her death she would be insane. Yet, what help was there for it? The mo ment the deed is known—the moment Mrs. Wilson learns that Sir Mervyn Ferrand has been found shot through the heart, she w ill let It be known that Ladv Ferrand i at nana; ana rerratid, who lias been parsing under the name of Mrs. Farmer, will be sought and found. And then! Even if she did not die at once—even if she recovered—oh, the shame of the trial! No Jury could or would convict her; but for Philippa, my queen, to stand in the dock, to plead for her life. To know that, whether convicted or acquitted, the deed was done by her. To know that all England is talk ing of her wrongs and her vengeance. Hor rible 1 Horrible! It shall never be. Bather will 1 give her a draught of opium heavy enough to close her eyes forever. There will be plenty more of the drug left for me! Fool that I was! Why did Ido things by halves? Why, for her sake, did I not hide the dead man where none would find him? Why did I not rifle his pockets, so that sus picion should have pointed to a vulgar mur derer; someone who had killed hitn for mere plunder? Why did I not, at least de stroy any let ters or papers which were about him? Identification might then have been rendered difficult, and p rhaps been delayed for weeks. In that time I might have saved her. Why do I not do this now? I started to my feet; then sank back into iny chair. No; not even for Philippa's sake could I go again to that spot. If L did so, I should return as mad as she is now. Not being able to bring myself to adopt the grewsome alternative, I could do noth ing, save wait events—nothing, at least, to avert the consequences of her delirious act But for her something must be done. llow could she, in her frenzied state, be left here —her only companions two men? Nurses must be at once procured. I summoned William, and told him he must go to Lon don by the first train in the morning. William would have received my instruc tions to go to the Antipodes with impertur bability. He merely expressed a doubt as to whether any one would be able to get to London to-morrow on account of the snow. I walked to the window and looked out. The night was still one mad whirl of snow-flakes. The window-panes were half covered by such ns managed to find a rest ing-place there. As I watched what 1 could see of the wild white dance, I found myself thinking that by now that dead man on the road must be covered an inch—must have lost shape and outline. 1 shivered as I turn ed away. "They are sure to keep the line to town open,” I said. “If you can get to Boding, you can get to Loudon.” "Oh. I can get to Boding right enough I” said William. Then I told him what he was to do. lie was to take a letter to one of the Nursing Institutions, and bring back two nurses with him. No matter what tie weather was when they reached Boding, they were to ?ometn my house at once, even if they had to hire twenty horses to drag them there, lte was also to get mo a few drugs which 1 might want. William said no more. lie nodded, to show that lie understood me; and I knew that if it were possible to do my bidding it would be done. Of his own accord he then brought me food. I ate, fori knew tliat 1 should want all my strength to support the anxiety of the next day or two. I stayed up the whole night. Oh, that awful night! shall 1 ever forget it? The solitude—the raging snow-storm outside— the poor creature, to wiiose side 1 crept noiselessly every half an hour. She lay there with a face like marble, calm and beautiful. The long, dark lashes swept her pale cheek. The only movement was the regular rise and fall of the bosom. Oh, happy oblivion! Oil, dreaded wakening! As 1 looked at her, in spito of the love I believe that, had I thought such a prayer would be answered, I should for her sake have prayed that those lashes might never again be lifted. Morning at last broke on my dreary vigil. Philippa still slept. I returned to the sit ting-room and drew back the curtains from the window. Yes; it was morning—such a morning as leaden, wintry skies can give. It was still snowing ns heavily, if not more heavily, than it had snowed last night. For twelve hours the flakes had fallen without Intermission. There was little wind now; it had drop ped, I knew, about an hour ago. The world so far as l could see, was clad in white; but the snow lay unevenly. The wind had blown it Into drifts. On my garden path its depth might be counted by Indies; against iny garden wall by feet. William now made Ids appearance. lie prepared some breakfast for himself, and then, having done Justice to it, started for Boding. It occurred to me that he might bo the first to find the object which lay on the roadside. Except tliat so doing might delay him and cause him to miss the train, this mattered little. I was now calmly awaiting the Inev itable. Someone must make the discovery. However, as I wanted the nurses, I said to him: “Remember this is life and death. Noth ing must stop you.” He touched his hat in a reassuring manner, and tramped off through the snow. I returned to my patient’s bedside and sat watching her, and waiting for her to awake. Hour after hour I sat by her motionless form. Now and again I glanced from the beautiful, senseless face, and looking out of the window saw the snow still falling. Would my messenger ever be able to reach town; if lie did so, would he be able to re turn? I was bound to have a woman’s aid. The presence of the roughest daughter of the plow would be welcome to me when Philippa awoke. And it was now time she did so. Although I felt her pulse almost every other minute, and could find no reason for alarm lain bound to say tliat her longsleep, protracted far beyond any I had in my ex perience seen produced by the exhibition of narcotics, rendered me very uneasy. I shall, I am sure, scarcely be credited when I say that Philippa’s unconsciousness lasted for sixteen hours—from half-past nine at night to half-past one on the following afternoon. I began then to think the duration abnormal, and deteimined to take some steps toward arousing her. But I was spared the responsibility. She stirred on the couch. Her head turned lan guidly on the pillow, llerdark eyes opened, closed, and opened again. She looked at me in a dazed manner, not at first seeming to know me, or to understand why I was near her, or where she was. A prey to the wildest anxiety, I leaned over her, and waited until she spoke. Little by little her bewilderment seemed to leave her. II t eyes rested with curious inquiry upon*mine. “Basil,” she said, faintly, but in a tone of surprise, “you here I Where am I?” "Under my roof—your brother’s roof,” I said. "Ah! I remember,” she said, with a deep sigh. Then she closed her eyes, and once more seemed to sleep. I took her hands and called her by name. Once more slfr opened her eyes. They expressed no fear of me, no dislike to me. They conveyed no reproach. They were c.ilm, and, weary, but gave no evidence of any m ntal disorder. "II ive I been ill Jong, Basil?” she asked. "Not very long. You arc going to get bet ter soon.” “I came to your house, did I not?” "Yes; and h *re I mean to keep you. Do you f el weak?” "Very weak. Basil, I have dreamed such horrible tilings.” "You have been feverish and delirious. People like that always fancy strange thin/s.” She was Indeed as weak as a child; but for the time, at least, she was perfectly sane. I could have cried for Joy as 1 heard her faint hut collected words. She was now fully awake, and perfectly quiet. 1 gave her some refreshment; then seeing she was lying in peaceful silence, I thought it better to leave her. As I quitted her room 1 drew down the blind, fearing that the whirling snow might bring recoliec'ions which it was my one wish to keep from invading her mind. The long dreary day wore away. The light faded, and another night began. Philip pa still lay calm, silent, and aiiuo-t apa thetic. 1 did nothing to rouse her. I went to her side as seldom ns possible. Most anxiously, as evening cam'*, I awaited the appearance of my faithful William and the nurses. Would they be able to reach us in such weather? It was still snowing fiercely. For more than twenty-four hours the mad white revel had continued without intermission. Tideed, that storm which burst upon the world as I turned from Philippa’s house on the preceding night is now historical; it was the beginning of the heaviest, and the long est fall which the record of fifty years can show. For two nights and a day the snow came down in what may almost be called drifting masses. During that dismal day I saw from the window the heaps against the wall grow deeper and deeper, and even in my preoccupied state of mind found myself marveling at tin* sustained fury of the storm. At eleven o’clock at night I sadly gave up all hope of the much-needed assistance ar riving. After all, it seemed that William had found it impossible to fight against the weather; so I made my preparations for an other night of solitary watchfulness. My delight then may be imagined when, look ing tor the hundredth time up the road, I saw close at hand two flashing lights, and knew that William, the faithful, lmd done mv bidding. In a lew minutes two respect able women from one of the best of the London Nursing Institutions were within my walls. The train had, of course, been late, very late. At one or two places on the line it had almost given up the battle, and settled down quietly until dug out; but steam and iron had conquered, and at last it did get to Bod ing. There William, knowing my dire necessity, offered such a magnificent bribe that he soon found an enterprising proprie tor who was willing to make the attempt to force two horses and a carriage over six miles of road between Boding and my house. The attempt, was successful, although the rate of progression was slow; and William triumphantly ushered liis charges into uiy presence. After giving them time for rest and re freshment, I explained the nature of the case, set out the treatment I wished to bo adopted, and then led them to Philippa. I left the poor girl in their charge tor the night, then went to take the sleep of which I stood so much in need. But before going to bed I saw William. I dreaded to hear him say what gruesome sight lie had seen that morning; yet I was bound to learn If the deed had yet been made public. “Did you manage to get toßodingall right tills morning?” I askeu with assumed care lessness. “I managed all right, sir,” said William, cheerfully. “Snow deep on the road?*' “Not so deep as I fancied ’twould be. All drifted and blown up to one gide, like. I never seen such a thing. Drift must have been feet deep this morning. What mast it he now, I wonder? Som* thing like the Arctic regions, I should think, sir!” For the first time for hours and hours, a ray of hope flashed across me. William had walked that lonely road this morning, and noticed nothing except the drifted snow! Oh that Philippa were well enough to leave this place to-morrow! We might fly and leave no trace behind us. She might never know what she had done in her madness. The fearful secret would be mine alone. A burden it would be, but one which I might easily find strength enough to bear. Bear if! I could hear it, and he happy;for some thing told me that, could 1 but save her from the peril which menaced her, Philip pa and I would part no more in this world until death, the only conqueror of such love as mine, swept us asunder. Once more 1 looked out Into the night. Still the snow-flake* whirled down. Oh, ’•rave, kind snow! Fall, fall, fail! Pile the masses on the dead wretch. Hide him deep in your bosom. Fall for weeks, for months, forever! Save my Jove and me! [2b be Continued.'] Rules for Good Health. Sleep, like any otlior nppetito, can be cultivated and pampered; nnd just as any nioutlifu! of food more than we really want is waste, and something worse, so every wink of sleep more than we need is dead loss, and that without the redeeming quality of 'over eating and drinking, viz., pleasure, says Rev. H. L. Hawaii. For to be asleep is not pleasure; simply dead loss. To sleep from 11 to 9 in the morning is too much; from 11 till 6 should be, and is, for one averagely healthy and nor mally’ constituted, quite enough. The point I want to fix on especially is those two precious hours before break fast. How many people only begin their day after breakfast, say about 10 o'clock! I myself lived for nearly forty years without realizing that I hail thrown away about 21,900 hours of good working life. Of course, the candle cannot bo burned at both ends. You must get your sleep. Xhave known more than one professional man to succumb to the habit of retiring too late and rising too early. That was tho beginning of my poor friend the late Baron Amnhlett's collapse. As Q. C. he never should have gone into parlia ment, and when he retired from the house on a judgeship the mischief was done. He used to be up late with briefs, or down at the house till 2 or 3, rise at G, light his own tiro and work till 9. AH such overpressure is, of course, bad. Young men may stand it for a few years—young men can stand almost anything for a few years—but it is a vicious principle. Give the body its dues, or the body will revenge it self. Still, to acquire the habit of early rising is worth an effort. I recom mend it for health and pleasure as well as for profit. No one knows how ra diant and vigorous nature looks who has not cared to assist her at early toi let, and seen her bathing herself in crystal dew and do. king ncrsolf with opening blossoms between 4 ami G o'clock on a midsummer morning. So much and iiow much more for tho pleasure-seeker? But the early-rising worker all tho year round is rewarded by an increase of produce, an economy of time, and an invigoration of mind and body. Morning literary work is usually characterized by freshness, continuity, grasp, and vigor; night work by fever, excitement, and less condensation. This I believe to bo the rule, and with exceptions, in speaking thus generally, it is, of course, impossi ble to deal. Of ono thing lam certain, that for all headworkers, especiall" ' literary men, the following r"' v be found golden: To bed oefor' j n To w< befo “ ro j -is little liquid as possible, and no smoking before bronkfusu The Rothschilds never employ a mnn who has the rooutatiou for ill-luck. " NO. 17. "What is One’s Social Duty?" Often we hear one friend ask this question of another. Is one’s social duty done bv accepting and giving in vitations? What do wo bind ourselves to in accepting the hospitality of a friend or acquaintance? Is our duty by her dono when we have entered the portal of our hostess -and have givon her greeting? Do we owe anything to her guests? If we are a man, do we do our duty when we neglect speaking to tne ladies whom we know? If we see a chance when wo can be of service to our hostess in making things pleasant and agreeable for her, is not that our duty to be ready and happy to do hor bidding or even to anticipate it? If wo are a woman our power to do more than to make ourselves as agreeable as we may is limited. We can then only be kind, generous and considerate of other women as it comes in our way. We cannot seek the opportunity of. be ing polite and making the happiness of those about us as men can. Selfishness, alas that we see so much of it where there is the least excuse for it. —Ladies home Journal. They Improve With Age. Having occasion the other day to search for some copies of daily news papers of a certain date in 1875, I was not surprised to find that at the offices of the newspapers I could buy no cop ies. Not one of the great dailies could furnish a copy of the date which I needed, but I was referred in every case to a man named Robert Budd, for merly a boot-black, who made a busi ness of dealing in back numbers of newspapers, f found him, and iu half an hour I had the papers. Budd’s history, or rather that of his; business, is peculiar. He is a coal black negro, with an intelligent face and remarkable faculty for estimating the value of his wares. Although he has a regular price-list, his prices vary according to what he thinks may be the value of the paper to the would-be buyer. Some months ago there was a law case which required the present ment in court either of certain newspa pers or of a certified copy of an article covering several pages in small type. Budd was the only man in the city who could furnish the paper; lie asked SIOO for it, although it was not ten years old, and had originally cost him but 2 cents, and the sum was paid, for the certified copy would have cost still more. Five years ago Build had a boot blacking stand on Broadway, near Thirtieth street, and at the same time sold old newspapers. He was struck with the number of demands made up on him for copies of newspapers two or three days, or a week, or even a month, old, and he had the idea of adding to his business that of old newspapers. That there is a demand for old news papers is simply shown by the business he has built up. At present he occu pies a large cellar, the walls of which are lined with newspapers tied up in bundles, each bundle containing the copies of one month of each year. There is a tag attached to each bqndle giving the month and year. As lie still keeps up his newspaper stand lie of course gets his papers at cost price, and when a person really wants a paper there is a fine chanco for profit. Every day Budd puts away twenty copies of The Herald , twenty copies of ihe Sun, ten of The World, Times, and Tribune each, and five cop ies of each of the evening newspapers. His schedule of prices is supposed to be as follows: For papers three days old, double the price; for papers a week old, 10 cents; for papers a month old, 25 cents; for papers a year old. $1; for papers more than a year old, SI.2A additional for every year. But, as £ said before, this schedule is no guide in case Budd discovers that the paper is of great importance. Soon after he began business he bought up completo files of several newspapers, running back in some cases to 1850. That ho finds the business a profitable one may be inferred from his ability to keep two assistants at work. The number of persons who wish to buy back copies of the newspapers i* larger than most people might suppose. In course of an half an hour, during which I searched through an old file, five persons came into Budd’s place and bought papers varying in age from 2 days to G years.—A cw Haven News. A novel incident which occurred to a stenographer of a Now York court the other day will raise anew point of law for the Judges to decide. The steuo grupher had taken the official notes of a case tried in court, transcribed them, and placed the transcript and the notes in his overcoat pocket. That night ho went to the theatre, threw his overcoat over the back of the seat, and the notes and transcript fell on the tloor and were lost. There is, therefore, no record of the testimony of tne witnesses from which to make up an appeal, un less the parties can agree to make it up from memory. The case is unprece dented, and the unfortunate steno grapher is in trouble lest he can be mulcted in the cost of anew trial, should one be deemed necessary. A Man of Titles. I heard a funny story the other day about a young nobleman, a member of the Diplomatic Corps at Washington. It seems that the young man had a military title of considerable length, beside having another title, and when he got ali his titles engraved on his visiting cards, the bits of pasteboard were well covered and looked most im posing. The cards greatly impressed all the Washington girls, and the young foreigner became a groat favorite. One of his friends, however, in a joking mood one day, told him that he must add the word “bachelor” to his card, as that, was the custom here. So the poor fellow had “uacbelor” engraved with the rest of his titles.— American Queen. ~.——— ii— -• i., In one of Ueorge Eliot's letters, to be found in the third volume of Mr. Cross’ biography, she refors to a remark which Prof. Huxley made on those good peo plo of London who have pursued him with false witness in their anti-vivisec tion zeal. lie declares himself to he especially vexed with the “profligate lying of virtuous women,” The oldest apple t* c(JB West of the Missouri Riv- ure gaid t 0 be those 0 n the .powaix. Some of them are over a foot in diameter. Tho seeds were brought over by Kov. Mr. Spaulding, the missionary " who was stations' Lapwni manv years a'_>o. a>- ' Mrs. Eliza \Varrcn ' I born on the ” ran,' V I . 1 *llding n aV", ***tof 44 Uus