Newspaper Page Text
VOL. XIV.
K- IfcT. EEID,
738 REYNOLDS STREET, .AUGUSTA, GA.,
—— Dealer In
Plantation Machinery, and Agricultural Inplements!
Steam Engines and Boilers of all kinds. Corn and W heat Hills and Mill
Machinery. Saw Hills for Plantation and Custom Work,
Separators, Grain Threshers and Fans,
MIBtESTERS MO TWINE BINDERS,
plain reajpeus and mowers,
E*gl Cotton Gins, With or Without Feeders and Condensers,
Cotton Prestos, For Steam, Water or Hand Power; Sul key Turning
Plows; Walking Cultivators; Gem Cotton Plows; One-Horse
Turning Plows;
MERCERS RELIABLE TURBINE WATER WHEEL.
Eclipst Cotton Planter, Belting, Lace Leather; Steam Pipes; and Fitting; Rubber
Hose; Steam Packings, Ao., to. Prices lower than ever known before.
Special Inducement* to cash Customers. Satisfaction will be Guaranteed in every sale.
Call at my office, or write for Illustrated Circular and Special Prices.
Creat Inducements.
The Cash Jobbing House
Are offering the Greatest Inducement* ever known in
DRY SHOPS, NOTIONS, MOB, NITS, it.
If Low Prices will sell the goods we mean to sell them.
Tha following facts will enable everybody to see why it is we can sell goods so much
cheaper than they can be bought elsewhere :
First.—Our goods are bought for cash.
Second.— They arc sold for cash.
Third.—Our expenses are com
paratively light
Therefore we can sell any goods in our line at just what they cost, other mer
chants who buy on long time and are burdened with expenses. Below we will mention
only a few of the many bargains we onrffow offering :
Printed Lawns from Ito 21 cents per yard. Best Union Lawns
and Pique* at sc, worth 6i and 7 J cents. Calicoos in endloss vorictios
from 3to 5 can s per yard, for best quality. Blenched Homespun from
up to 8 cents, tor the best. Pants Goods from 5 cents per yard up.
Indies, Misses and Gerts Hose ul 5, 10, 15 find 25 coots, worth 10, 15, 25
and 35 cent*. We have a large and well selected stock of White V ictoria
Lawns, India Muslins, Checked Muslins, Kmbroderies, Irish and Tarchon
Laces at prices that defy competition by any boueo in the South. Six
quarter Oil Cloth at 15 cents per yard.
DRESS GOODS!
Our stock in this litis very complete, consisting of Blr.ck ar ;Col
ored 7/uutir.gs, Nun’* "Veiling, Kber Cloth, Black Sil’s &c. It will bo
to the interest of every ono to examine these goods before purchasing.
Y'o l esn buy B uting at 61 cents, worth 10 cents. Figured Dress Goods
st 6s, H and 10 cents per yard, worth 10, 12 j, 15 and 20 cents.
Straw Hats!
From 5 cents up. Nobby Hats for Boys and Men at 10, 15, 25c.
—*■■■■—— —
Shoes, Shoes.
|.tdies Shoe* and Slip >ers at any price from 25 cents up. Children
knd Misses Shi es si prices to suit anybody. Crockery, Glsssware and
Hard wore st Cost We haven t the space to mention prices, ns we
w< nld like, but c rdially invite every one to come nnd examine onr stock.
The above figures will no doubt astonish you. Therefore wc ask you to
come and see that the prices are correct and be convinced that we mean
just what we say,
Don’t forget the place,
The Cash Jobbing Cos,
X. ID. M-A.-ST. HVHan.a.E'or.
THOMSON, GA,
HARD I
It i* * fact generally known that J. F. Shields t Cos,, have the largest sleek of Dry
Goods, Shoe* and Notions in Thomson.
It i* also known that the more you buy of an article the less you have to pay for it in
proportion.
It therefore follows tlist having the largest stock onr goods did not cost ns *s much
in proportion as it cost others who buy less.
It also follows that we can and should sell for less than others snd yet make a fair
profit.
Jut What We Propose to Bo
We have just received a beautiful line of Ladies Dress Goods, sneta *s Worsteds,
Brocades, Suitings, Kyber Cloths, Nun’s Veilings, Mohair, also the largest and most
Stylish line of Ginghams ever seen here.
A targe lot of Muslin* aud Lawns to suit taste and purse. White and Colored Laces.
Sift and Satin Trimmings to match Dress Goods.
EvKt ft Brothers Todies Fine Shoes ■ ipeciolty, Evitt t Brothers Ladies Fine Slip
pets. Opera, Newport. Oxfords and Sanrlals, and other shoes in every style and quality.
We have something new and beautiful in Colored Mitcbeline Counterpanes that will
be all the fashion.
We have a targe line of Gentleman's Clothing. Very Low, for cash.
Also fine Shoes high cut, snd low quartered.
A targe assortment of Misses', Boy’s and Men's Hats,
We have the bext Sowing Machine made, never bad a complaint, warranted to
please, We will sell them on the installment plan to suit our customers.
J* F. Shields & Cos,
No 3, Brick How, Thomson, Ga
THOMSON, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, JXJJSTE 17,1885.
IT SHALMIE WEU.
If thou shalt be in heart a child.
Forgiving, tender, meek and mild.
Thou with light stains of earth defieled,
Oh, soul, it shall be well.
It Rhall be well with thee indeed,
Whate’er thy race, thy tongue, thy creed,
Thou shalt not loose thy fitting meed;
It shall be surely well.
Not where, nor how, nor when we kuow.
Nor by what stage* thou shalt grow;
We may but whisper faint and low,
It shall be surely well.
It shall be well with thee. Oh, soul,
Though the heavens wither like a scroll,
Though sun aud moon forget to roll—
Oh, soul, it shall be well.
Dark Days.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
Author of “Called Back.’*
CHAFTER XVI.
“where ark the snows that fell last
YEA II?”
Although, while engaged in the labor of
writing this story, I have many times re
gretted that 1 am nothing more than a plain
narrator of farts and Incidents, not a master
of fiction, l think I have not yet felt the re
gret so strongly as at the moment when I
begin this chapter. The somber acts of the
life drama in which Philippa and l played
parts so painful, so full of grief, aud even
if brightened by a ray of joy, of joy falla
cious and of uncertain tenure—these acts 1
have found little difficulty In describing; I
had simply to throw my mind back to the
pictures of the past and reproduce them in
words. The task, whether well or ill done,
was not a hard one.
But now, when In one moment and as if
by magic, everything changed; when sor
row' seemed to be simply swept out of our
lives; when that poor abject wretch’s con
fession of guilt, forced from him in some
mysterious way, not only left our whole fu
ture bright amt cloudless, hut consigned to
rest all the ghosts of tiie past, whose shad
owy forms had hitherto dogged our steps
and denied us the happiness rightly due to
those who love ns we loved; now it Is that I
feel my shortcomings acutely, and wish my
pen was more powerful than it is.
And yet a word will describe the state of
my own tnlml as, when the Inst solemn
words were spoken by the Judge—spoken In
a voice which showed emotion and distress
at being compelled to condemn a fellow
creutuA to death—l curled my faiutiiig
wife from the crowded, reeking court. The
momentary sense of rapture passed away;
bewilderment, sheer bewilderment, is the
word for what was left. 1 could not think.
All my reasoning faculties had left me. In
fact, I lie ieve that had Philippa not swoon
ed, and so needed my mechanically given
care, 1 myself should have fallen senseless
on that threshold which an hour before
we crossed, thinking we were going to mid
less misery.
1 remember this much. A* I laid Philip*
pa on one of the hard wooden benches in
tin* stone c <rr.dor I kept repeating to my
self, “Innocent, mv Inv© is innocent; that
man i< guilty.” 1 hiip)mis© this c mtinual
reiteration was an endeavor to impress the
tremendous fact upon mv brain, which for
a time was incredulous, and refused to cu
;ertain it.
1 threw up my wife’* veil and bathed her
face w ith water, which was brought me by
ft kindly policeman. Presently her eyes
opened, and consciousness returned; she
•trove to speak.
My presence of nilnd we* fa*t returning.
“Dearest,” I whispered, “a* you love nie,
not a word In this place. In a minute we
will leave it.”
tShe was oh' dient; but I knew from the
wild look of joy in her eyes that obedience
tasked her to the utmost. She was soon
able to rise, and then we walked from the
court, pushed our way through the crowd
wrho wailed in the street, busily discussing
the sudden termination to the trial, threw
ourselves Into a cab, and In another moment
were alternately weeping and laughing ill
each other’s arm*.
It was, however, but for a moment. The
inn to which we drove was close at hand.
There w© were shown Into a room, and were
at last free to give the fullest vent to our
pent-up feell tiffs.
It would he absurd for me to attempt to
reproduce our words, our disjointed excla
mations. It would be sacrilege for me to
describe the tears that we shed, the em
braces, the loving caresses wc lavished on
each other. Think of us an hour, one short
hnurairo! Think of us now! The curse
laid upon us by that awful night removed
forever! Our secret kept, or secrecy, if still
advisable, no longer absolutely needful.
Philippa, in spite of all I bail seen, in spite
of ail she had told me on that night when I
found her, a wild, distracted woman. In a
storm the wildest that years have known,
guiltless of her husband’s death! Innocent,
not onlyas she had in iny eyes always been,
but also, what was far more, innocent in
her own eyes!
Small wonder that for nearly an hour we
sat with our arms twined around each other,
and used few word* which were more than
rapturous exclamation* of love and joy.
There! I cannot, will not describe the
scene more fully. I will say no more, ex
cept this; when at last we grew calmer,
P.iiiippa turned to me, and once more I saw
terror gathering In her eyes.
“Basil,” she slid, “it is true—it must be
true?”
“True! of course it Is.”
“That man, the prisoner, could not have
pleaded guilty when he was innocent”
“Why should he? It meant death to him,
poor wretch.”
“But why did he confess?''
“Who can tell? Kcinorse may have urged
hint to do so.”
Philippa rose, and her next words were
spoken quickly and with excitement.
“No, 1 did not do it. The thought, the
dream haunted me, but 1 did not believe it
until 1 heard those men talk of the way lie
died. Then it all cam© back tome. The
mal storm, the dead man over whom I
stood; even then I don't think I actually be
lieved it. It wa* when you told me how
you found me, that I lost all hope.”
“Dearest, forgive me. 1 should have be
lieved in tiic impossibility of tlic act even
in your delirium, even if I had seen it done.
Philippa, say yon forgive me.”
She threw her arm* around in©. “Basil,
my husband,” she whispered, “you have
done much for me, do one thing more; find
out the whole truth—find out why tiiis man
killed him, how he killed him; find out,
satisfy me that hfs confession was a true
one; then, Basil, such happiness as I have
never egen dreamed of will be mine!”
“And mine!” I echoed.
I promised to do as she wisher!. Indeed,
the moment I had recovered my sense*, I
resolved to learn everything that could be
learned. Once and fr all I would clear
away every cloud of doubt, although that
cloud might be not bigger than a man's
hand.
Bui Philippa must not stop In Tcwnham.
Her strange conduct during the trial, her
fainting-fit aft r it, were bound to have at
tracted the attention of those present. No
doubt she was looked ii|>ori as a friend of
the prisoner, who wa* overpowered by the
sudden and awful ending to the ease. Still,
she must not stay at Tftwnhatn.
We went to London by an afternoon train.
The next morning I again ran down to the
ptsce at wh.cli the trial was held. I accept
tainea tno name ot the conWt’s solicitor,
and as soon as I found hint at leisure re
quested the favor of an hit *iview.
1 found him apparently a worthy, respect
able man, but of a nature inclined to be
choleric. I told him I calledon him because
I was much interested in : the case of the
convict William Kvans. Mr, Crisp, that was
his name, frowned and fidgeted about with
some papers which were inffront of him.
“I would rather not talk about the case,”
he said sharply. “Nothing for many years
lias so much annoyed me."
“Why? Your client oijy met with his
deserts.”
“True—trqe. But l am k lawyer, sir. Our
province is not to think so much of deserts
as of what we can do for aciient. It Is hard
to try and serve a fool.”
“No doubt; hut l scarce*'understandyour
meaning.”
“Meaning! I could have saved that man.
There was no evidence to speak of against
him. What did It amount to? A pistol of
a peculiar m iko found in *'i>ld half a mile
away from the scene of the murder; one
man who could swear that the pistol was
my client’s property—a pawnbroker, to
whom he wanted to sell it. Positively, sir,
that was the whole case for the Crown.
Never so disgusted in my life—never 1”
The excitable little man’s looks showed
that his disgust was not assumed.
So the pistol which I had thoughtlessly
hurled away had, after ail, furnished the
clew and brought the criminal to justice.
Although 1 was now quite satisfied that the
right person was to suffer for the dark
crime, I resolved to gei nil the additional
information I could.
“>it why did ho pleM guilty'.”’ I asked.
“Because he was a Mol,” rapped out Mr.
Crisp, “it was like committing suicide. I
don't care a button foe the man himself ;hut
I confess I was almond at seeing my case
all knocked to pieces bv his obstinacy. 1
went to him; if you were in court you no
doubt saw me. 1 begfed him to withdraw
his plea, i told him 1 could save him. Yet
the fool insisted.”
“Did penitence or remorse urge him?’’
“1 don’t know. 113 could have had more
time for penitence lnd remorse if he had
let ine save him from the gallows. No; lie
says, ‘lt’s no good—tot a bit of good. You
don't know all 1 knew. There’s someone
in court who khows all about It—saw it all
done. She’s come to hang me.' 1 have no
Idea what ho meant.”
I started. I knew what the man meant.
He, in common with every one else in that
court, had turned and looked at l’hilippa as
she rose from her seat and addressed the
judge. It was the sight of Philippa that had
taken away the wretch’s last liopoof escape.
“J wash my hands of the fellow, of course,”
continued Mr. Crisp; “but 1 did take the
trouble to inquire if any witnesses for the
prosecution had been allowed to enter the
court lam assured they were all kept in
walling outside.”
1 sat for some moments in deep thought.
The solicitor looked at me, as if lie fancied
1 had already taken up ns much of his valu
able time as he could spare.
“Is there any way of gaining access to the
condemned man?” 1 said. “Could you, for
instance, pet an order to see him?”
“No doubt 1 could; but I have no object
in seeing him.”
“I will give you nn object,” I said. “I
want you to see that man, and if possible,
got written, or at least diewted, confession
from hi in—not of the bald fact that he is
guilty, but of all particulars connected with
the murder.”
Mr. Crisp looked surprised, find expressed
his opinion that it was all but impossible to
obtain what 1 wanted.
1 had taken rather a fancy to the brisk
spoken, sharp little man. lie seemed to mo
trustworthy; so that, after consideration, I
determined to confide to him my reasons
for making this request. Under the assur
ance of professional secrecy, I told him
briefly so much as I thought fit of Philippa's
and my own connection with the evenis of
that night, lie listened with an interest
which augured well for the reception which
awaits the somber tale 1 now give to tho
world. His curiosity seemed excited, and
he promised to see the convict, and, if possi
ble, learn all I wanted to know. 1 left my
address, ami bade him good-day.
1 did not care to linger at Tewnhnin; so 1
walked down to the railway-station, intend
ing to return to town by the next train. As
l waited on the platform a down-train came
in. A sudden impulse seized uic. The day
was still young. 1 had time to spare. J
crossed the bridge, entered the train, and in
a quarter of an hour was at Koding. 1 went
there because 1 was impelled by a desire to
once more visit the actual scene of Lite be
ginning of all these troubles.
I walked that road which Sir Mervyn Fer
rand had walked that dark night, But oh,
how changed everything was! Yet not more
changed than our own lives. It was a glori
ous afternoon In September. The rain of
the preceding day had left the earth moist
and fresh. The fields, on either side of the
road, were gleaming with that bright, pun*
emerald which they wear after the ruthless
scythe has swept away the ripe grass and
the marguerites and other flowers which
grow among It; or else they were filled from
hedge to hedge with a golden sea of waving
corn, or sheaves waiting to he garnered; foi
the harvest that year was not early. The
wild roses were long over, but fragrant
honeysuckle and other wild flowers still
made gay the hedgerows and banks. Toe
birds hail awakened from their Atiginf si
lence, and were singing once more. The
great sleepy cows lay under the shade of the
trees. The large mows of new hay stood
side by side with their dlngy-looking, but
more valuable elder brothers. The whole
land seemed wrapp'd in h&ppy autumnal
repose. The scene was ealin, peaceful, and
thoroughly typied of England. So beauti
ful it was, so full l now felt of love for my
native land, that bail these pages been then
written, I should upon my return home,
have era>ed all my glowing description of
S vilie.
A breath of soft but fresh air came blow
ing from the faraway downs. 1 drew in a
deep draught; l threw hack my shoulder*
and stood erect. I laughed aloud in my
great happiness as a comical picture, famil
iar to in}* childhood, of Christian losing Ills
burden, rose before my mind, and seemed
to be the exact thing wanted to illustrate my
own case. Yes, the burden I had borne had
fallen from my back forever I
Ah! here Is tho spot—the very spot where
Sir Mervyn fell. It was here, just under that
cluster of ragged-robins, 1 must have placed
. his corpse, little thinking that the kind white
snow would hide it, and save iny love and
me. Oh, how 1 prayed In those days that
the bitter weather might last; that its iron
grip would hold the world fast until l'liiliie
pa’shealth and strength returned! It did
so, and aaved us!
“Where are the snows that fell last year?”
Ah! should I not rather sing, “Where is the
grief of yesterday?” Gone like the snow.
Other snow may fall, other grief may come,
but last year’s snow and yesterday’s grief
are gone forever!
Nevertheless, that spot was too suggestive
of horrible reinlmsceiwfes for nn; to linger
long over It! 1 turned away, and in my
great happiness could whisper to myself
that I forgave the dead man for the ill he
had wrought. May his bones rest in pence!
I walked along the road, right on until 1
came to the cottage in which, like a coward
who could not face his troubles. 1 had spent
those aimless, miserable months, It was me
tenanted. Half defaced auction bills were
in the windows and on the doorposts; for
some months ago the furniture had been
sold. I paused and looked at the window
by which Philippa had entered, and felt
that since that night I had passed through
more grief, passion, fear, liojk* and joy than
would fill an ordinary lifetime. Then I
turned and shook the dust ott my feet. Nev
er again would I come within twenty miles
of this place.
On the road back, to my annoyance, I en
countered Mrs. Wilson. 1 tried to pass with*
out sign of recognition, but she was too
quick for me. She stood In front of me,
and 1 was bound to stop.
She was more haggard, more drawn, more
aquiline looking than ever. Her eyes alone
looked young. They at least had spirit and
vitality in them. They positively blazed
upon me.
“Shedid not doit, after all!” she said
fiercely.
At first I thought of affecting surprise and
asking her what she meant, but 1 felt that
any attempt at equivoque would be but vain.
“She did not,” 1 answered shortly.
“Fool that I was!” she cried. “Fool, to
be led away by an Impulse I Why did I tell
her? 1 swear to you, Dr. North, that had I
not felt sure It was her act, she should nev
er have known. She should have gone to
her grave a shamed woman, as I shall go!”
Her look was venom itself.
“Kemember,” 1 said sternly, “Lady Fer
rand is now my wife. I will not hear her
name coupled with yours.”
She laughed scornfully. “Your wife! She
soon forgot her first love. Why did I speak?
1 wish my hand had withered before I
wrote that letter. Do you know why! wrote
it?”
“No; nor do 1 care.”
“1 wrote it for vengeance. She had, I
thought, served that man as l ought to have
served him; but I hated her for it, for 1 lov
ed him stiil. So 1 thought it would be so
sweet for her to know that she had killed
her husband, and for you, her lover—l knew
mu were her lover—to know that 1 could at
•ny moment give her up to justice! I was a
fool. Why did that man plead guilty? When
I saw your wife rise in court l laughed. 1
knew what was coining. Now, instead of
harming her, I have done her good.”
“You have,” 1 said curtly, and turned up
on my heel. The malignity of this woman
was so intense thnt 1 felt thankful she could
In no way work Philippa harm.
A quarter of a mile up tho road I turned.
Mrs. Wilson, a black spot on a fair scene,
was standing gazing after me. I hurried on
until a bend in the path hid her from my
sight. I hurried on back to PuiUppa and
happiness!
cn after xvii.
(i.KAK SKIES.
Although K tglantl was now to mo and to
my wife a land very different from the ono
we quitted some eight months ago we were
anxious to get hack to Seville, if only to set
at rest my mother's fears. She, poor wo
man, as a letter showed, was much exer
cised as to what manner of business could
have made us leave her in so unceremonious
a way. The moment the glad truth had be
come known to me, I had telegraphed, say
ing that all was well with us, and that we
should join her. Two things only detained
us.
The first was that we wanted the convict’s
confession. Although Philippa said little
on the atibj ci, E knew that until it arrived
she would not bo happy. There was with
her a haunting dread that the man, in the
hopes of mitigating his sentence,had plead
ed guilty to a crime of which he was inno
cent. Even the accurate account which I
gave her of my Interview with the solicitor
did not quite untlsfy her. Ho we watted im
patiently for the explanation, which might
or might not come.
The second thing which kept us in JiOn
don was this. I determined that before 1
left I would have the fact that when I mar
ried Philippa I married Lady Ferrand fully
acknowledged. 1 found my way to the gen
tlemen who were w inding up the dead man’s
affairs, and stated my case to their incredu
lous ears. At first they treated me as an
impostor.
But not for long. Indeed, my task was
half done. They had already, without any
assistance from Mrs. Wilson, ferreted out
the date and particulars of tho death of the
first I/idy Ferrnnd. They had but to assure
themselves that the marriage-certificate
which 1 laid before them was no forgery,
and surrender at discretion.
It was a poor estate, the administrators
told me. Sir Mcrvyn had died intestate.
He had during his lifetime made awrfy with
nearly aii lie could alienate. Still, there was
some personal property, of which my wife
could claim a share, and a certain amount
of real properly, on which she was entitled
to dower. lint it was a very poor estate.
I cut them very short. I told them that,
let the deceased’s wealth be great or little,
not one penny-piece of it should soil my
wife’s fingers. If Sir Mervyn Ferrand'* heir
was in want of the money, it should, pro
vided he was a different stamp of man from
his immediate predecessor, bo given to him
a free gift, if not, sonic hospital should bo
benefited by it. All I wanted was, that it
should be clearly understood that Sir Mer
vyn Ferrand left a widow.
The administrators, one of whom was, by
the bye, the heir, evidently looked upon me
os a most eccentric personage. Perhaps it
was for this reason, or—ns Ido not wish to
cast unmerited blame—perhaps it was be
cause the estate wound tip lonothing—well,
any way, even to this day wo have received
no communication, much less remittance,
from the admin Ist rotors; nor, to tell the
truth, have I troubled them again. I’nilip
pa’s marriage admitted, I washed my hands
of all the Ferrand brood.
The confession did not arrive; but I per
suaded Philippa to leave England. Mr.
Crisp could send whatever lie had to semi
to .Seville just ivs well as to London. So
once more, and this time in all but perfect
happiness, we took thnt long journey which
was by now quite familiar to ti.
The joy, the wild joy, with w hich Philip
pa threw herself into my mother’s arms
checked all the unbraidiugs anil reproach
which we apparently merited. Our return
was Ike the return of a prodigal son and
daughter. Laughter, tears, and happiness!
Although I told my mother nothing ns to
the object of our mysterious journey ; al
though site asked me nothing; although no
word evidencing her knowledge of what
had passed has ever crossed her lips, 1 know
that nil lias been revealed to her; that Phi
lippa bus sobbed out the whole strange tale
on her breast. I know It by this, that since
the day of our return my mother's deep love,
for my wife has shown Itself even tenderer,
sweeter, and deeper. Yes, 1 was spared the
telling of the tale. My mother’s eyes the
next day showed me that I’ldMppa Imd given
her the history, as I have given it here, from
beginning to end.
No, not quite the end. .Sit by me once
more, as I asked you at t lie beginning of my
story to sit by me; but this time, not by tho
side of a smoldering fire, but out in the fair,
gay jmtin of our Andalusian home. Philip
pa and I are side by side. The post has just
come In, and brought me a bulky packet, on
which. In a clerkly hand, Is written my
name and address. I tear the wrapper oiien
with eagerness. 1 know what It ontains;
Philippa knows. 1 wish to read it first alone,
but the appealing look in her eyes turns me
from my purpose. After all, there Is noth
ing to fear, there can lie nothing which she
should not know. So, with our cheeks all
but touching, we read together. Sit by us,
lean over my shoulder, and read with us.
“The confession of 'William Evans, now
lying in Tewnliaiu jail under sentence of
death
“On the fifth of January, this year, I re
turned from New Zealand. I worked my
passage home. When 1 reached fiondon
I had but a few shillings In inv pocket, 1
had no article* of value which 1 could sell.
All I owned, except my clothes and the lit
tle bit of money, was a pistol which a man
on board the ship had given me. It was a
f pistol of his own Invention. He had several
with him. and said lie wanted to get the sort
known. Why he gave it to me Uofl knows;
but he did, and a couple of cartridges.
“I spent rnj money—all but a shilling or
two. 1 tried to get work, but none was to
be had. Then I remembered that 1 otice
had a friend who lived near Boding. I went
there by train. 1 had just enough money to
pay my faro. I found that the man 1 knew
had left the place two years ago. I walked
back to the town penniless and desperate,
“The first thing I did was to go to the
pawnbroker’s, and try and sell tho pistol.
The man wouldn’t buy It at any price. He
said Ids shop was full of pistols. 1 wont
away, and walked to the railway station to
try and earn a few pence somehow. I was
in despair—all but starving,
“About seven o’clock the train from Lon
don came in. A tall gentleman came out of
the door of the station. 1 asked him if ho
had any luggage l could carry for him. He
told me to be off. Then 1 asked him, for
pity’s sake, to give mo a shilling to buy
some food, lie cursed me, ami 1 began to
hate him.
“He stood under the gAs-lamp, and drew
out a great gold watch and looked at the
time. Then he asked a man near by which
road he must take to got to a village named
Cherwell. The man told him, I saw him
walk away, and I knew where lie was go
ing.
“I shall 1)0 hanged next week; there is no
hope for me. But I tell the truth when I
say that, bad fellow as I have been, I bad
never committed such a crime as the one
which at that moment entered my head.
That tall man had money, jewelry and good
clothing; I bad nothing. 1 was starving.
.So 1 ran on, got before him, went miles up
the road, and sat down in the bitter cold on
a heap of stones, waiting for him to come,
and making up my mind to kill and rob him.
I knew 1 must kill him, because lie was so
much stronger and bigger than I was. My
pistol was loaded.
“He came. I saw him in the moonlight.
I stood up as he came near and. God forgive
me, pulled the trigger, and shot him through
the heart. He fell like a stone, and I knew
I was a murderer.
“Oh, if 1 could 1 would have undone the
deed! I stood for a long time before I dared
to go to the body and steal the things for
which 1 bad committed the crime. Then 1
nerved myself and went to take the price
for which, unless God is merciful, 1 had .-old
my soul.
“1 never took a farthing. Just ns I was
about to begin I heard the sound of feet. I
looked up, and saw a woman or a spirit
coming to me. I dropped the pistol in ter
ror. I felt sure she saw me. 1 looked nt
her under the moon. Her face was white,
her lips were moving, her hair was all Hy
ing about. .She came straight to where the
dead man lay, then stopped and wrung her
hands. 1 tied away in deadly fear. I ran
across several fields. 1 dared not stop. I
thought that spirit or ghost was following
me.
"I ran on until the snow began. I must
have died in that snow-storm if l bad not
found a half-roofed cowshed. I crept into
this, and lay all the night and part of tho
next day. 1 was the most wretched being
in the world.
“Hunger nt last drove mo out. I got
through the snow somehow, and reached a
house, where the people saved me from dy-
Ing of starvation. Hut nothing could make
me go again to the spot where I halt done
the murder. Mv life since then has been
one of agony. Even now that lam going
to be hanged I am happier than I have felt
for months. May Clod forgive my crime!
“I pleaded guilty nt the trial because 1
turned round in the dock, and saw tho wo
man I thought was a spirit standing up
ready to denounce me to the judge. I knew
that she saw me that night, and 1 was bound
to be found guilty.
‘I have confessed all. Every word of this
is truth. As 1 hope for mercy, it is all true!
“William Evans.”
“P. B.—l took the above confession down
from the prisoner’s dictation. It should be
all you want. The man seems thoroughly
peniient, but 1 do not trouble you with Ills
expressions of remorse and regret.
“1 remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,
. “Stephen Crisp.”
We read the last lines; the paj>erfluttered
down from our hands; we turned to each
other. Tears of deep thankfulness were in
my wife’s sweet eyes. Down to the smallest
detail, tho wretched man’s confession made
everything clear. Nothing was left unex
plained, except, perhaps, the motive which
Induced Philippa logo that night to meet
her would-be betrayer once more. This we
shall never know, but her temporary mad
ness may amply account for it. Wo need
seek no further; the faintest doubt as to her
own perfect Innocence Is removed from my
wife’s mind. Hand in hand, heart to heart,
lip to lip, we can stand, aud feel that our
troubles are at last over.
Our troubles over! Shall those words be
the last l write? No, one scene more—the
scene that lies before me even now.
An English home. Out side, green shaven
lawns, trim paths, and fine <dd frees. In
side, tlie comfort and the peace which make
nn English home the sweetest iir the world*.
For when tho need was- gone;, when sunny
Spain no* longer was for m the one safe
land, its charms dfininfehed, and we pined
to see mice more England’s fair fields and
ruddy honest faces. So back we mine, and
made ourselves n home, far, far away from
every spot the sight of which might wake
sad thoughts. And here we live, n n<\ shall
live till that hour when one of us must kiss
the other’s clay-cold brow, and know that
death has parted those whom naught but
death could part.
Look out; look through this shaded win
dow. There she sits, iny wife; a tall son at
her side, fair daughters near her. Years,
many years have passed, but left no lines
upon her brow; brought no white threads to
streak that raven hair. The rich bright
lieauty of the girl is still her own. To me,
now nof yore, the sweetest, fairest woman
in the world!
The children see me as I gaze with
thoughtful, Imppy eyes upon that group be
neath the trees. They e.dl amt beckon in©.
My wife looks up; her eyes meet mine, just
raised from these sad pages. All! love,
sweet love, in those dear eyes what was it
ones dry fate to read? Shawn*, sorrow,
dread, despair and love. All these, save
love, have vanished long ago; and as 1 turn
to pen these lines—the last, that Rook of
calm, assured, nuekmded jLy keep* with me,
telling me that from* her life lias passed even
the very memory of those dark, dark days I
THE END.
“They do* Lave some queer girls
down in Bostow that’s a fact, observed
a traveler from New England; “the
last time [ was in Boston, at the* house
of a friend, 1 met a young lady there
who struck me as type of her kind.
We were to b:vo chicken for dinner,
and my friend'* wife asked thw young
lady to step into I \m kitchen to see
what a nice fat fowl she hud. Would
you believe it? That Boston girl in
quired: “Is U dressed?’ ami on being
told that it was not she modestly re
fused to go into tho kitchen. That
very night that girl, who is a medical
student, went to the dissecting-room
and helped iw tbe work. These boston
girls break two all up."
Tho humble* two molt* at least ten
times before arriving at the winged
state.
Princess Me resale*, eldest child of tho
Kiug of Spain, is said to he precocious
and pretty.
The thousands of finircr rings worn
in this country are estimated to be
worth &>,000,0110.
NO. 24.
HOW BUItNAttV DIED.
Struggling With rf Crowd of Arabs—Eh*
Sword Agatimt tho Spear.
Mr. Burleigh, the war correspondent
Who was wounded at Abu Klea, has,
tinder the inspiration of his hurt, writ
ten to the Daily Telegraph a thrilliug
account of the battle, and in it occurs
this description of Colonel Burnaby’s
death, which must become historical!
“Still down upon us the dark Arab
wave rolled, it had arrived within
800 yards undiminished in volume, un
broken in strength—a rush of spears
men ands Words men. Their fiflo tire
had ceased. Other Arab forces sur
, rounding, us—the MahdPs troops.,
plundering Bedoiliifs and pillaging vil
lagers from the river side—stood eager
on tho hillside watching the charge
upon the British square. In wild ex
citement, their white teeth glistening
and tho sheen of their brandished
wcapous flashing like thousands of
mirrors, on warn they came, charging
straight into our ranks.
“I was at that instant insido the
square, not far from the Gardner gun,
when J saw’ the left face move some
what backward. Colonel Burnaby
himself, whose every action at the time
I saw from a distance of about thirty
yards, rode out in front of the rear left
face, apparently to assist two or three
skirmishers running hi hard pressed.
All but one man of them succeeded in
reaching attr lines. Colonel Burnaby
went forward to his assistance sword
in hand. As the dauntless Colonel
rode forward be put himself in the way
of a sheik charging down o horse
back.
“Ere the Arab closed with him a
bullet from someone in out ranks
brought the sheik headlong to the
ground. The enemy's spears men were
close behind, and one of them suddenly
dashed at Colonel Burnaby, pointing
the long Wade of bis spear at his throat.
Checking his horse ami pulling it back
ward Burnaby leaped forward in his
saddle and parried tho Moslem’s rapid
and ferocious thrusts. But tho length
of the man’s weapon—eight feet —put
it out of his power to return wit h inter
est the Arab’s murderous intent. Oncer
or twice Colonel Burnaby just touched
his man, only to make him more wary
and eager. The affray was the work
of seconds only, for the savage horde
of swarthy negroes from Koruofan and
strnight-bTiired, tawny-complexionod
Arabs of the Bayuda steppe were fast
closing in upon our square.
“Colonel Burnaby fenced the
Arab as if he were playing in an as
sault ut arms, and there was a smile on*
his features as he drove ofl' the man’s
awkward points. Tho scone was taken
in at a glance. With that lightning
instinct which I have seen desert war
riors before now display in battle whilo
coming to ono another’s aid, an Arab*
who was pursuing a soldier and had
passed live paces to Burnaby’s right
and roar, turned with a sudden spring,
and this second Arab ran his spear
noint into the Colonel’s right shoulder.
It was but a slight wound. Enough
though to cause Burnaby to twist
around in his saddle and defend him
self from this unexpected attack.
“Before the savage could repeat this
unlooked for blow, so near the ranks of
tho square was tho scene now being
enacted, a soldier ran out and drove
his sword bayonet through tho second
assailant. Brief as was Burnaby’s
glance backward at this fatal episode
it was long enough to enable the first
Arab t/> deliver his spear point full in
the brave officer’s throat. The blow drover
Burnaby out of his saddle, but it re
quired a second one before he let go his*
grip of the reins and tumbled upon thir
ground.
“Half a dozen Arabs were now about
him. With blood gushing in streams
from his gashed throat flic dauntless
guardsman leaped to his feet, sword in
hand, and slashed at tho ferocious
group. They were the wild strokes of
a proud, brave man dying hard, and lie
was quickly overborne and left helpless
and dying/’ —Aew Tori* Herald,
The Fraternal Goat.
In* Pucks county is a farmer who hag
a fine; lktrgo shepherd dog. The farm
er also has a goat, and this latter ani
iijyil has often rendered valuable as
sist aneo to tho shepherd dog in keep
ing other dogs away from the sheep.
Before* the goat came parties of dogs
used to call on the sheep, and while
two of tho mutton-hungry dogs would
engage the attention of the shepherd
dog the other dogs would go for sheep.
Kut the goat changed all that. Not
a enr in the neighborhood would darw
to attack the goat, and the farmer’s
sheep have enjoyed an uuusual degreo
of protection.
A few days ago the dog disappeared.
The fanner didn’t worry hrmsolf much,
for he thought the goat was still nt
hand. Hut when he found the goat
was gone ho became alarmed for the
safety of his sheep and search was in
stituted.
The roads of the neighborhood were
explored and people were asked if they
had seen a stray shoplierd dog or a
stray goat. Most of them had seen
neither. Nobody bad seen either Alone.
Along one road every toll-gate or coun
try store reported that a dog and goat
bad been seen journeying together inr
the most fraternal manner. One or
two people had tried—they said they
had seen somebody else try—to steal
the dog, but the goat had impressed
them very strongly with tho idea that
they must steal him, too. Tho queer
pair were inseparable. In the courso
of a week or ten days, they were found
in a barn on a farm some m miles dis
tant, where they were apparently
happy and contented together. Tho
dog was a handsome one and an effort
was made- to bring him home alone,
but he would not come without hi*
companion. The goat had to be al
lowed to* come tone, toow
“Of the seven newspaper men who*
reported Webster’s famous address at
the laying of tin* corner-stone of Bun
ker llill monument, Edward Everett
Halo is said to be the only one now
living.” As Mr. Hale was only 3 year**
old wtoa* Webster delivered his speech,
hre reportoria! work os that overran
may bo set down as a phen omened jour-*
rial is tic feat. —Atlanta Constitution*
There-had been, some illness in the*
family, and when kind-hearted but
inquisitive neighbor asked Johnny who*
had been sick he promptly answered:
*‘()h, it's my brother, that’* all.”
“What was the-matter with- him?”
“•Nulliu, only be was sick.” “I
know, but wliat ailed him?” “O, I
dittiiiot” ’“Whut did bo have?” Utr
tod' the- doctor.” That closed the iu
. qui.dtion. —Christian ml Work*
Tennessee has great natural rosonre
es, Including 10,000 square miles of
timber as ret untouched.