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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.