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MARC
A NOVEL IN THREE PARTS.
BY SANDY DeTAVARKS.
Entered according to Act of Congmaa, be the Hipn n
Ptbeisbisg Coxtask, in the office of the Libra
rian at Washington.
CHAPTER IV (CONTINUED.)
“ I am glad you do,” ho replied, with pro
voking calmness; “and I intend to do the
same. Now, listen to me: You with me to
marry you ? Put yourself m my place, if you
can, and see if it would not be madness tor a
man to marry a woman who had once been
his mistress. The woman that becomes my
wife must be one who would neTer yield to
me. Such a one was the wife I bad some
years ago. She was inferior to you in all re
spects but one. All I tried failed to make her
yield. I married her, because her virtue was
impregnable, and not because I loved her any |
st promise to give
bity of his ways am
i but through my ag<
ack to a life of honor
she returned i;
ously. “Either take the money and perform
the required service without conditions or re
ject it.”
Her imperiousness somewhat awed Mp. j>mff,
and quite dissipated his pious reflee.tja|}»]pl»
perceived in a moment that her religions
principles were small. In fact, he remem
bered at the moment that she was a fallen
woman—not degraded, bnt still fallen—and
that in her state of mind the quality of mercy
was not likely to possess any considerable in
fluence.
“Perhaps you Bre right,” he remarked,, as
he took the mony and hastily thrust it in his
pocket “It may be better to make no con
ditions. The wavs of Providence are inscru-
tible. Into His bands I leave this business,
merely trusting that in serviog yon I am but
His agent to work ont a righteous end."
“Very well, then. You have my address.”
And she turned to leave.
“May God have mercy on yon, poor sin
ner,” Mr. Sniff began.
Bnt she waved her band as if to bid him
better than I had others before or have others i ce ?“’ ttnd , th * F**! U P 8 wr / athed themselves
since. She is desd now. People say she died l ln f? * 6mlle of d,fiance and contempt as she
of a broken heart, becauso I neglected her
bnt that is nonsense. She is the only woman I „ " Kee P * onr . blessings and your pity for
I ever met whose purily was above suspicion ] ‘boss who need them. They are of no use to
Good afternoon, sir.
In another moment she was gone. Then
* tn|nyr^ionl&*, '
1 break as sh< '
if tbi
out biuret of tv i
id aSerfjfiu
>K
once more.
I have thought well over this, Matilda " she
said, “ Night after night I have bun npon my
bed and thought if the day would come when
I should have to send the chifd away. ; It 'was
a hard' Btruggle I had, before my mind could
become reconciled to the separation, for I felt
then, even as I leel now, that when I have
parted with It, the last link, save you, which
binds me to humanity, will have been part
ed forever. And, Matilda, I have also
thought that if yon have grown tired of fol
lowing me from place to place, I will either
send you back to the South to end your daya
in paace, or here, will act yon free and give
you enough to support .”
Before she could go any farther, Matilda
had stopped her—
“Leave you, Miss Belle ” she said, “I Hint
gwiue to do any sich thing, l only go back
Sooth if you go; I only have freedom if yon
wont keep me.”
" Then stay with me Matilda,” rejoined
Belle.
“An* the baby, the poor baby” said Ma
tilda, reverting to the infant, now that all her
fears about herself had been removed.
“Must leavo us, Matilda, ” was the reply,
given sadly, but with decision.
Bello then told her what disposition she in
tended to make of the child. It would not
in my mind. I believe that most women have
their price. Yon certainly had yours; and if you
could haven price with me,yon can have it with
some one else in the future. I cannot trust
my honor in your hands. Yon betrayed yonr
own honor, and I have not the slightest assu- ... , , _ ... ,
m pencil, “Iso. 40 Jsickerbocker Place, Go- care, until such time ns she could take it back
ranee that you would preserve mine, there- 1 ’ . tr . ., , v _
r mr . * r. ■ . . . i ram. I to her home. Her visit to Sir. Van Dusen
can’your absurd desire be ever gratified Do 'Y hcn he rcad the Eame - M. r - Sn . iff Ettered ; had “ erel y pve-cipitatea this previously deter-
yon hear me fully T
Mr. Sniff for the first time looked at the card i do to have the little thing carried from place
she hnd placed in his hand. In printed giltj to place wherever she went. She therefore
lett rs it bore the name of “Miss Arabella proposed to place it under tho charge of the
Laurissini," and below was written with a I Sisters of Mercy, and to pay liberally for its
| a faint cry ot surprise. Then he leaned mined purpose, and on the following day sho
H This was a cruel, cold-blooded speech to
make to her, and she felt the sting of his
words. But Mr. Van Dasen cared but little
for her feelings. Half seating himself on the
handle of his chair, the gentleman coolly-
puffed his cigar with as much calmness and
indifference os if the wretched victim of his
passion was not seated before him pleading
for justice.
“I have heard all that yon have said,’
she replied. “ There was a time when you
spoke differently, but that time is gone.
Have you done saying ail you wish?”
“No,” he said; “there is something else I
wish to refer to. You spoke about a child—
your child and, I suppose, mine also.”
“Suppose!" And her voice trembled from
excitement
“Yes, suppose,” he rejoined. “Csn I swear
that it is mine?”
Hitherto she had been composed and mod
crate nnder the most shameful taunts; but
now her inmost ssul could stand his words no
longer.
“Suppose!” she repeated, rising and ad
vancing towards him. “Wretch! hound!
take that back 1 Do you not know that the
child is yours ? Is it not enough that I must
biar the sin and shame of its birth, without
having its very parentage doubted ? During
all the months that we lived together, what
other man did you ever see me with, even for
a minute, except in yonr presence?"
Selfish and callous as he was, Mr. Van Da
sen felt that he had gone too far, and bad
spoken words that should never have been
uttered.
“There is no need of flaring up,” ha said;
“I admit I have been hasty. You are right.
The child is mine.”
Her anger had apparently gone as quickly
as it was aroused, and she resumed her seat
without giving him a reply.
“And believing that it is mine,” continued
Mr. Van Dasen, “I am willing to pay you
any reasonable sum that yon may namo for
its support.”
Here he paused to relight his cigar.
“Are you done, " she asked.
“Yes, quite done,” he answered.
“Thenhear me now."
She rose and walked up to him with a firm
step. Her lips quivered somewhat, and the
hand that she placed npon his trembled a
little; bnt the eyes were bright, and shone
with a determination which was incapable ef
being misunderstood.
“Hear me now,” she repeated. “All that
yon have said does not move me one inch
from my purpose. Until yon die, or until I
die, I shall pursue you and demand to be
made your wife. I am not altogether withont
friends, and if by this day six months hence
a marriage ceremony is not performed
between us, my brother shall know who the
betrayer of his sister is. Yea smile. Well,
it is trae that he has forbidden me to speak
to him or to cross his threshold, but he holds
the honor of his family dear, and stands
ready to avenge its betrayal the moment he
learus who the betrayer is. For the sake of
yonr child, I have hitherto said nothing. Six
months hence yon must decide what my
course shall be. As for your offer to support
the child, I spit at it.”
Mr. Van Dusen laughed heartily when she
had concluded.
“Your threats amuse me. Belle; I am
quite used to them,” he said. “This last
one affects mo no more than the many others
you have uttered. As for yonr determination
to follow me wherever I go, there is an easy
remedy for that. If you enter my presence
again for any such purpose r.s brought you
here this day, by Heaven I will have you put
in a lunatic asylum. I have borne with you
long enough, and will snbmit to this no lon
ger. It has become intolerable.”
As he ceased speaking, Mr. Van Dusen
rang the bell, and Mr. Sniff reappeared at the
door-sith remarkable promptness.
“Sniff, show this lady out," said Mr. Van
Dusen. “Should she call again, you will
oblige me by informing ms of the fact before
admitting her.”
Mr. Sniff bowed in reply.
The woman said nothing more, but quietly
left the room, followed by Mr. Sniff, and as
the two reached the door leading to the
stairs, he said:
“I accidently overheard all that transpired,
and I feel for you. I am, I hope, a moral
man, and if I can serve yon, let me know it."
She threw back her veil and gazed at him
keenly for an instant, and a shade of oon-
tempt passed across her conntenance.
“Yon were eavesdropping then,” she said,
and perceiving that he was about to deny the
charge, the continued, “There it no need for
you to deny it You offer to serve me. I
accept the offer and will pay for yonr services
liberally. Give me yonr name and private
address."
Mr. Sniff handed her his card.
“Now, what I want yon to do,” she said,
“is to keep me informed of every movement
of that man.”
“Can I do this without wronging my own
conscience,” he asked piously. “Under
stand me, madam, from what I have heard
this day I recognize in you a wronged wo
man. I, as a man of family, as the father of
daughters—small, it is true, bnt still daugh
ters —can sympathize with yon, from the bot
tom of my heart"
Bere Mr. Sniff placed his band upon his
left breast
“If," he continued, “I can do as you wish
without derogating northing from a strictly
moral standpoint—if, in a word, I can, con-
ccnsistenlly with my position as a member of
the church of the Puritans, comply w ith your
reques*. you may rely upon my serving yon
to the best of my ability.”
“Yon but decide yourself whether yon can
serve me without disturbing your con
science, ” the replied contemptuously,
can only any that If yon keep me informed
of every movement of Mr. Van Doecn, I will
pay you one hundred dollars every month, so
long at you ere in my employ."
Taking a pocket book from her pocket she
opened it and drew forth several bills, from
which the (elected one for one hundred dol
lars and banded it to him.
“Yon are right,” he laid solemnly. “It it
the cense of the wronged I serve, but before I
take yonr money, you must promise sot to
would carry it into effect.
“ It will be hard for us, Matilda,” she said
in conclusion. “ But we most bear it as best
we can. Perhaps you cannot understand
why I am about to send it away from me. It
must not grow up ashamed of its mother, and
ashamed of me it will be, if I attempt to
bring it up myself. No. It is better for the
child that it shall not know me antil, if it
lives, it can learn to forgiTe me for the shame
of its birth.”
At that instant the cry of the infant came
from an adjoining room, and Matilda hurried
from the parlor to take it. Presently she re
turned with u little cherub in her arms,
laughing with baby glee, and pulling her
head kerchief.
•‘Ma-ma,” and the little thiog held her
arms outstretched aud was taken by the
mother, while Matilda left the parlor to order
up dinner.
Seated on her mother’s lap, the infant
played and laughed, heedless of the early
parting they were soon to have. But, Belle,
was once more brooding on her wrongs, and
the sweet cooing of the babe awoke no repent-
ent feeling in her heart for the conrseshe had
resolved upon.
Matilda announced dinner aud, os usual,
the infant was placed on a high chair before
the table aside of Bello. It was some two
years old, and could barely lisp a few words.
But it was full of grace and beauty, as if all
the charms of its mother and the manly beau-
jnss iBistUA LACarssiNi disposes of ekb ! ty of its father (for he was a handsome man;
had united in giving the world a very angel
against the side of the door and appeared to
wonder if he had not heard of a person with
that name before. It seemed to puzzle him
to remember where he had heard of it Sev
eral times he took off his spectacles, wiped
them, and placed them on again.
“Let me think,” he soliloquized, “where
have I heard of that name;" and after several
minutes of reflection he suddenly clapped his
hands together, "Goodness me 1” he contin
ued, “can she be anything to the fire-e*ting
member of Congress from Louisiana? Bless
me 1 Dear me ! What a fall if it is. Why,
they do say that the slaveholder is a regular
aristocrat. This all comes of keeping human
flesh and blood in bondage. It is a just pun
ishment for centuries of crimos. Can she be
anything to Mr. Gustave Lanrissini ?"
Before he could decide whether she was or
not, Mr. Van Dnsen's bell rung, and he has
tened to reply to it
Mr. Sniff had guessed correctly. The lady
in question was the sister of the Hon, Gus
tave Laurissini, well known throughout the
Republic as the owner of three hundred
slaves, a member of Congress, aud a Fire-Eater
of the mo6t decided type.
CHAPTER V.
On leaving Mr. Sniff, Miss Arabella Lauris-
sini entered a cab, and ordering the driver
to take her to No. 40 Nickerbooker Placo,
leaned back against the cushions and thoaght
over the events of the past few hours. She
was a woman of about medium stature, with
a face that must have been once inexpressibly
beautiful, and was even now, in spite of its
thinness and palor, quite interesting. The
lips, as I hare .before .stated, were small and
exquisitely shaped, and the eyes, block and
expressive, shone with a brilliancy that not
even mental anguish could dim. The hair,
too, was of a glossy black, and was braided
in the style ot the period, before chignons
had been introduced. But the woman was
thin and wasted. The complexion, which
mnet once have been lovely, was pale and
bloodless, end on the little hands every vein
bulged oat a blue line.
When the carriage stopped, she alighted,
paid the cabman, and walking slowly m> the
steps of the house, rang the bell. The door
was opened by a slender, middle-aged colored
woman, with a complexion of the color of
gingerbread and a face full of kindness and
good nature. She was attired in a dress of
striped homespun, manufactured in the
Southern States, aronnd the neck ef which
was tied a white handkerchief. Her head was
bound ap in a madras kerchief, from beneath
the folds of which a few kinky hairs strag
gled, looking as if they had not their way,
and were puzzled how to return to the natural
bone.
“I’m glad yon're baek, chile," she said;
“I’ve been waitin’ anxious for you. There
now, dear heart,” she added, as her mistress
threw herself upon the sofa of the parlor and
bnried her face in the cushion.
The slave -for such she was—knelt by the
side of her mistress and gsutly patted her on
the shoulder.
“Tell me,” she said; “ain't you been an'
seed him ? ”
■ Yes,” said her mistress, from the folds of
the cushion.
“What did he say?" continued the slave.
Is he gwine to ac’ tho man with you ? Is he
gwine to make it all right ? ”
“jiiatilda, he drove me away from him. He
insulted me; told me that he would never
marry a woman that had done as I had.” And
she rose from the sofa aud began pacing the
floor to and fro.
Done what ? ” observed Matilda sharply,
still retaining her kneeling position, “Done
what? Aiut yon been as good an’ true to
him just aa if you had done been married to
him? ”
He taunted me with having been to him
what I was," continued Belle, speaking as
much to herself as to tho slave, “ Great God !
how bis words did sting me ! And then at
last, after refusing to make me the only repar
ation in his power, he actually turned me oat
of his office and forbid his clerk to admit me
again. I cannot bear this any longer. I
have waited, and prayed, and hoped for all
this sorrow and shame to end, but without
avaiL”
Boor gal, poor chile ’’ remarked Matilda,
compassionately.
“ We mutt make a change Met.” said Belle
after a few minutes of silence, “ We mast do
something now. I have told him I shall fol
low him to the last, and I shall keep my
word. To do this, something must be done
with the child."
The woman started to her feet and looked
wlfh surprise at he mistress.
“Do what with it, Miss Belle," she asked
hnskily.
“Place it somewhere—nnder some one’s
care. I cannot keep it with me any more,”
replied Belle.
“ Yoa aint a gwine to sen’ the baby away,
Mies Belle," said Matilda, her lips quivering
with fesr. " I love it as I love you. Oh, do
Miss Belle lets go BOtnewhere an' live quiet
like. Leave this villin alone. Let's go back
down South and take it with ns. Do for
God’s sake doot sen’ it away.”
She sank on her knees before her mistress
with uplifted band, and looked up into the
pale face beseeching. And the down-trodden
slave, regardless of her fetters, and feeling
only the mighty love that dwelt within tho
great heart, concealed ftom human view by
her dusky skin, burst into tears.
And the proud end haughty slaveholder,
heedless of the different stations into whioh
God, in Hi* wisdom, bad plaoed the two, bnt
seeing in this slave only the faithful being
that followed her footsteps in childhood and
her wanderings in womanhood—this owner of
human flesh and blood, rented in a society
which philanthropists have denounced and
Fiona Frauds have fulminated against, placed
her arms arooDd tbs bondwoman's neck,
laised her . from the floor and them, for the
of loveliness.
The evening passed away dull and spirit
less. Matilda placed tho child in bed at an
early hour, then laid herself beside it, and
wept nntii|she, too fell asleep to dream that
she was again on the plantation, with Belle,
once more a child, playing upon the lain in
front of the mansion, happy and innocent
•She slept aod her sleep was calm and placid,
but Belle sat by the window during the entire
night, and when morning came and the sun
Bent its little rays slanting across the room,
Matilda found her still there, sleepless and
silent.
. “I have not been to bed,” she quietly re
marked in answer to the look that Matilda
gave, “ I have not felt sleepy.”
“ This wont do ” said Matilda, “ you must
ac' differently. Come now, you mis' take
some coffee. There’s no use lrettin’ over the
child. You are right. It mm’ go, an’ God's
blessin’ go with it. But you mus’ cheer up, I
aint gwine to let you kill yourself with settin'
up all night. It wont do."
GrieviDg herself, as never before did mortal
grieve more frequently, the good natured hy
pocrite spoke as if she had quite made up her
mind to part with the infant. She bustled
about the room actively, then disappeared and
presently returned with a waiter on which a
breakfast of coffee, toast and soft boiled egge
were placed. It was Friday, and Belle was a
Catholic, as also was Matilda. Perhaps it was
from force of habit, for she hod been neither to
charch nor to confession for nearly three years,
bat she still adhered to the mandates of her
religion, which forbade tho nse of meats on
that day.
Placing the waiter on n small table which
she had drawn before Belle, Matilda persua
ded her mistress into drinking the coffee and
eating a few mouthfuls of the food. This she
did more to please the servant than from
any inclination she felt for the meal. When
it was over and Matilda had taken away the
waiter and replaced the table in its proper
place she referred, for tho first time that
morning, to the subject that bad nover been
absent tor r.n instant, frem the thought of
both since it was announced on the previous
day.
Is everything ready,” Bhe asked in a low
tone. “ Have you packed her clothes,” Ma
tilda turned her back to Belle, as she an
swered.
Yes, everything is ready.” And the wordi
came broken from her lips.
Have you ordered a cab ? ”
Yes.”
And baby—she—is she asleep." For a
moment only the brow contracted as if with
pain, then Bell's face resumed its usual ex
pression.
Matilda walked up to her Bide.
“ It’s awake an’ ready ” she said. “An’ I’m
gwine to ask for the last time. Is you sure
this is right ? Is you certain that it’s better not
to have the child with yon. Think again for
the last time an’ think good.”
“ I thought last night for the last time, and
my mind is qnite made np. Yes. It is best
she shall be parted from me.”
“Then I've nothin’more to say," replied
Matilda, “ Alwayajto come we'll stick together,
an' if every little while you'll let me go an’
see the child, an' come back again an' let yoa
know bow it is, that's all I ask.’
“You shall be gratified."
“When do you wish to take it?” Matilda
asked.
“ In a few minutes,” replied Belle. “Get
my bonnet and sacque—the black eilk one,
and look in the poeket of the dress I wore
yesterday and take out my pocket book. '*
After the bODnet and sacque were put on,
Matilda left the room, and on her return an
nounced that the carriage had arrived. Belle
weat out, and at the door, saw tbs babe in the
arms of another servant.
“ Givo the baby to me," she said.
A small trunk, together with a ftew other
things, were placed in the carriage, after
which Belle entered with the infant, and was
soon followed by Matilda. The door was then
closed and the vehicle drove off, watched by
the other servants, standing on the steps until
it was lost to sight.
“ Did too tell the servants that we inland
to break up housekeeping in a few days,”
Belle asked, after a few moments of silence.
“ Yes.”
The cab goon tamed out from Nickerbocker
Place and entered Repeater street, but before
it had gone many blocks, its .progress was ar
rested by a crowd of persons standing on the
sidewalk, surrounding a woman who was
weeping bitterly. Bhe wee a meanly dressed,
attenuated creature, evidently of the lowest
eiasa of society, with large red has da which
•be wrung convulsively.
“What's the nutter” tnqniie! a police lain
who had just stepped up,
Ob; Bir,” she
child and I am afi
river and tumbled
too; only two yei
will I do ? And
tions.
Belle’B face flushed as sho heard the poor
creature explain the cause of her grief. Here
was a woman, who, from all appearances, was
compelled to labor hard for the support of her
children and of herself, bawaihng the losn of
her ill tie one. And here wturshe, possessed
of ample means, about to abandon her child.
Drive on ” at first, and then added quick
ly, “No, stop, here Matilda, take this enild,”
and opening the door of the cab she alighted
in the street
The crowd, perceiving from her dress that
she was a lady, gave way and formed a passage
for her to the bereaved mother, who wee still
wringing her hands in nn agoDy of grief.
“I am sorry for you," said Belle. “If I
can aid you in finding the child I am willieg
to do so.” Then turning to tho crowd she
beckoned the policeman, and continued as she
handed him her card, “ tell these men that I
will pay fifty dollars to whoever finds the
child, if they will call at my residence.”
“It shall bo done mum, “replied the
polioeman.
“ May God in HeaTen bless yon, moam,
exclaimed the mother, catching Bello by the
hand. Then as she looked in the carriage
and saw the babe, she went on, “Ah, you are
a mother, yourself, and you know my feel
ings. You can feel for ine. Oh, my child !
What's become of it!"
At this moment a noise was hoard from the
outside of the crowd, which had, by this time,
increased in size, quite encircling the mother]
Belle and the carriage.
“Here she is; here she is!” said a dozen
voices.
Pressing through the mass of human be
ings was a man with a little girl in his arms.
As soon as the mother saw it she rushed for
ward, vrith a cry of joy, and took it from him.
She hugged and kissed the child, then laugh
ed hysterically; then hugged and kissed it
again, while the crowd gave a cheer of sym
pathy for her. It was quite an affectieg sight
and began to unnerve Belle.
“Call the man who found it,” Bhe said hut
riedly to the policemen.
The man approached with his hat in his
hand, looking as sheepish as ever mortal did
that had just porformod a meritorious action,
and had received the applause of bis fellow
mortals. For the crowd had cheered him and
the mother in the excess of her happiness
had also given him a bag of thankfulness.
Belle placed fifty dollars in his hand.
“This is your reward my man " she said,
aud then turned and entered the carriage.
The crowd would have insisted npon taking
ont the horses and pulling the vehicle for a
few blocks, but Bell protested against any
such proceeding, and the policeman, who
received a handsome gratuity, interfered and
prevented it.
The last thing Belle saw was the woman
still clasping her fond child frantically to her
bosom. Tbe last sound she heard was the
hurrahs of the crowd for the kindness of the
lady that had paid so liberally for its recovery,
while herself on the way to part from the
little one that now sat upon her knees smiling
and crowing, and ignorant of the approach
ing separation.
Once more they drove on, and when the
carriage stopped before a large bnildieg half
concealed from view, by high walls aud the
thick foliage of trees, Belle and Matilda
alighted with the baby, with an order to the
driver to wait until their return. Belle rap
ped on tho brass knocker attached to the gate,
which soon opened and they entered the con
vent. Following the Sister down the bricked
passage, they were conducted to tho main
building and shown ieto a small parlor, neatly
famished with a large crucifix standing over
the mantel, and several religious paintings
suspended on the walls. From the half
opened window leading te the gardes, the
sound of laughter came, and on looking out
Belle saw some thirty or more little girls, of
ages ranging from four to fourteen, attended
by several of the bisters, playing amidst the
flowers.
“See Matilda” Ishe said, “how happy
they seem."
Before Matilda conld reply, the Sister Su
perior entered the parlor. She was a toll,
austere looking woman, bnt with n not unpre
possessing face. She was dressed in the attire
of her ordor, except that her head was covered
by a light cap, instead of by the usual hood.
“You are the lady, I suppose,” she re-
marked, “that addressed me a Utter some
days ago in reference to a child yon desired
taken caro of.”
“Yes” Belle replied. “But before I leave
it with you, let me explain fully what I desire.
The child is mine, bnt there are reasons
I cannot now explain, which render
necessary that I shell part with it for some
years, perhaps forever. I desire it reared as
a lady’s child should be; no trouble nor ex
pense must be spared in its education. At
such time as you may think it is too old to
be retained here as a pupil, you can let me
know.”
“ About the child's religion, madame” said
the Bister Superior, "unless the parents desire
it otherwise, all of our charges are educated
in tho Catholic faith."
“By all moans rear it up a Catholic. I am,
or was one,” replied Belle, hesitatingly.
“There is another question I would liko to
ask, ” observed the Sister, “ from the tenor
of your words it would seem probable that
you do not intend to remain in Goram. I
suppose therefore that you will have soma
agent here. Still events may happen lot
which you have made no calculation. Should
anythin g occur to you or to the child —”
“ I have thought of all that” said Belle,
“,I will send you the address of my agent
before I leave town, and he will promptly
famish you with such information as may be
necessary. I do not wish you, however, to
hold any communication with him unless it is
absolutely necessary.
The Bister Superior bowed and looked
keenly at the speaker,
“This woman," continued Belle, pointing
to Matilda, “ will call here occasionally to see
the child, if there is no objection to her do
ing so.”
“None, whatever, naadame.”
“ Well, then, all that remains is for yon to
name such sum as will be required by tbe
rules of the Convent” Belle said, “or, per
haps," the added “you weuld prefer me to
name each a sum as I csn afford to pay.”
“ That will be preferable " answered tbe
Bister.
*' Will five hundred dollars be enough per
annum ? " Belle asked.
“Too much madame,(loo much for a child
of that age."
“ Let it be five hundred dollars then ” said
Belle, “here is the money for three years in
advance,” and the drew three five hundred
dollar bills lrom her poeket book.
Tbe Sister Superior looked at her in amaze
ment, and gently put back the hand that con
tained the money, at the asms time assuring
her that the snm offered was so unusually
large, the hesitated accepting it How did
Bke know whether tbe lady was not parting
with her last dollar. No, the Bisters of Mercy
were always happy to take care of children
whether their parents could pay for their edu
cation or not, end Mrs. Lauronisaiui oould
rest assured that the infant would be aa well
treated without the money as with it.
“ Take the money, Sister ” said Belle, force-
ing it npon her. Asd Bhe laughed with a
hollowness that startled the rriigieust as she
added " My God, if money conld make me
happy, how little would t hurt to complain
of! Take the money, Bister."
The Sister Superior took the notes and sit
ting before a small dssk which stood in one
corner of tbe room, wrote out a receipt for tbe
nun paid, which she gave to Belle, who re-
eeived and placed It in her poeket book.
“ Do yon propose leaving the child with as
to-day?” asked the Bister.
“ Yen, take it now,” and Bella held out tbe
infant to the Sister.
er the outstretch-
dly face which
no” it lisped,
its head in the
nd was placed
and presently
a rosy face with laughing eyes looked np into
the features that quivered their every muscle,
though they remained grave aud showed no
outward return of the baby love.
O mother, feast your heart with that look
of affection and innocent confidence, for nev
ermore in infancy, never in youth and never
in age, will that babe place its head upon yonr
breast or smile up inte your face. O mother,
you who bore in your bosom and brought
forth the “sinless child of sin,” fair and
beautiful as sin itself, pure and stainless as
Heaven, turn yonr head and hide tbe double
shame from the gaze of your cherub—the
shame ef its birth, the shame of its desertion,
Seekjiot to peer through the cloud of years,
for behind the curtain of time there is no
promise for you. In the depths of the fath
omless Futuro grim spectres stand between
yon and affection. The tendril of the vine
liful flowers will garland the dead, but on tbe
rocks washed by tho pitliless waves no Tine
will ever cling, no flowers will ever bloom
, on both side?,
rnsd until next week,
arfoJ Mr. Mitchell stated
3 first communicated with
klin about twenty years ago,
,jy dona so since. 'Mr Hyde
had communicated with Franklin through
him, as he did not commnnicate in any other
way. He had been encouraged by Franklin’s
spirit all the way through. Franklin had
told him the depth t« go, and they Aad gone
to the exact depth.- f *
The Log Eolling.
SCENES FRO* EtANTATtON LZP£ fcj CtQQplX
Reohtater Union G< orgiA Letter.
W* lately felled sene twenty •erwofiMtw,
second-growth pine timber, end the logs be
ing too heavy for the help on the place to
handle, we made a log rolling. The freedmen
of the neighborhood were invited to help, end
promised plenty to eat and diink, and a dance
m after the work was finished ; three considers-
will cling around the withered tree, and bean- oshard for them to withstand as Credit
Henceforth and forever you are as the barren j Paging ;
rock to that child, for though it may pity it i
can never love, though it may not corse it can I
never bless, though it may forgire it can nevor !
forget Feast then, O mother, your heart
upon that look, press the tiny hand yet closer 1
to your cheek, and let this remembrance of j
your parting be the one pure spot within you
until the moment comes when all of prayer 1
for pnnty and love must be addressed to Him I
who died upon the Cross.
With just the merest bit of a shudder J
Belle placed tho infant on the cat pet and
Mobilier is for those who are not negroes,
but are less happy.
By sunrise the hands ore marching toward
‘•God Ha made tlie trees to grow,
Masaa cut ’em down;
Kiggara day <le cotton hoc,
An’ plow do mclier ground,
An’ plow, an’ plow.
An’ plow de mtLer ground.”
God brpfls de master's
God Ureas de ueater’a ground,
De ground, de ground,
God bress de master'* ground.”
The field being reached, they divide them-
beckoned to Matilda, who brought her a j squads of six, and with a vrili corn-
small basket, from which she took several 1 1
toys. These she gave to the little one, who
shook its arms aud langhed as the rattles
sounded. Just one kiss Belle gave it aud
then rose to leave. Matilda, more demon
strative, but with aa effort forcing back her
tears, sat by its side, and several times pressed
her lips to ita face, each time seeming to be
come more loath to part from the little being
th.ut she had nursed and cherished from th^
day of its birth. Meanwhile the Sister Su
perior had stood near the center of the room,
her arms folded before her, watching the
scene. The usually austere features of the
gentle woman had changed to a face full of
surprise and sympathy, but she remained si
lent and made no movement &e if to speak.
Belle went np to her—
“My letter has given the name of the
child ” she said, “ in a few days I will forward
you the address of my agent. Come Matilda.”
With these words concluded, speaking she
turned to the door, and once more, and for the
last time, she heard the silver voice o^the in-
mence piling the logs into great heaps; each
squad singing some one of the many work
songs they learned in slavery times; anu with
out tbe singing of which their labor would
seem hard aud onerous. It is impossible for
us to describe these songs. They are often
witty and sometimes vulgar, but there is
something in the music of them that pene
trates the soul like the sad tones of an Molina
harp, a certain weirdness of sound—minors
born of the winds; and to the imaginative,
telling the sorrows of a century of servitude :
to them but the natural expression of feelings
tinged with happiness and contentment.
Here and there over the field steed mum-
moth trees, mooarchs of the forest, an 1 when
the logs from these are reached by any of the
squads, they call for help in the ioilowing
manner:
“Come, oh come, an’ help we niggers.
Here am one we cannot tote;
MasKa, you must pass tie licker,
An* for our dinner £ib us shost-”
Tho two 6quads nearest come to their as-
faut call “ Ma-ma;” but she never saw the i tk® great log is raised with a shout,
baby eyes filled with tears gaze upon her i an< ^ ftvra y they march with it, singing
then, nor the little arms stretched out to her, |
for Belle walked out of the room, holding her
hand to her heart.
“Home, as quickly a9 possible,” she said
to tbe driver, as Matilda followed her hur- j # At noon the horn blows; telling that dirmc-r
riedly in the cab. 1 i* ready and waiting to be eaten. They eat it
When they reached the house Belle went | * 8 if they enjoyed it, and then there is an ho nr
into her room and sat down by the window, : °f boisterous sport. First, a foot-race, In
“Mibb*, die am mighty long,
Maasa. tbis am wighij big;
P»*b the licker, make um strong.
Au’ don’t forget de roaated pig."
even as she had done the night before, and
remained in thought until tbe sun had faded
away in the West and the dim, uncertain gray
filled the street and room. Then she kneeled
down by tbe chair.
which the younger ones indulge, the winner
being a half demented hunchbach. He reaches
the goal, and with a horrid kind of grin ex
claims, “1 beat,” and with a chuckle of satis
faction rolls himself into a ball and then rolls
God* help me, God hear me ” she said, ex- j of sight Then they tell how he outran
tending her arms upwards and looking throagb i the Major's fox hounds in an all day chase,
the window into the dark blue sky. “ I have • an( * caught aud killed the fox with his “ own
torn from my heart all that was worth having | hands.” There is a wrestling match, a rough
there, leaving no hing but hate therein. Now, j an< l tumble squabble, jumping and tumbling,
you, Oh Christ, hear me, a woman, bind my- J aud some very sharp marble playing by the
self to follow that man till death, to follow | older ones. Again the horn blows, and with
all that he holds dear till death; to work out j a song they start for the field.
hid misery, to make wretched all cf his, and I Before^ sunset the logs have been relied,
never to end my task until all the shame and i “ Massa” being compelled to take a free ride
sorrow he has cost me is obliterated and for- °u the last one out of the field to the fcllow-
gotten!” ing song:
In the next room Matilda was also on her
knees by a cradle. And in her hands she held
a tiny lock of hair, while before her there
was a suit of infants clothing. She wept and
appealed to God, not to aid her in revenging
wronged, but to have pity upon the mother
and the babe, and make their lives united and
happy.
And so the mistress and the slave alike
spoke to the Snpreme. Why shall we, with
human passions and failing, condemn the
thirst for vengeance ? Is there in this wide
world a fiercer or more terrible thiDg than a
woman’s hate ?
|TO BE CONTINUED IN NEXT SUNDAY S PATEE. ]
A Spiritualistic Spring.
THE BEALTH-GIVINa WATERS DISCOVERED BY !
THE 6PI RIT OF BEN FRANKLIN—A SUIT
OVER THE DIVISION OF THE
Matsa, you muit nebber ecold.
But gib de rollers more corn whisky.
I ho, corn whisky, ho—
1 ho, com whisky, ho.”
The more corn whisky being compromised
by a good and substantial supper, and the
colored women and girls of the neighborhood
having arrived, they adjourn to the largest
cabin on the place, where they rattle their
heels to the music of the “quills”—reeds—
until the gray blush of morning mantles the
Orient and bids them to their homes return.
PROFITS
From the Albany Journal, April 25.
Among the curious cases on record must j
be classed that of Hyde agt. Comstock,
which came up on a reference before H. S.
McCall, Esq., referee, yesterday afternoon. ;
The action in itself is a trilling affair, having I
simply been brought to compel a division of 1
profits between three partners in what is
known as the Franklin Spring, at Ballston; j
bnt there are oarcomstances connected with ;
it, as shown by the evidence, which tends to i
make it of singular interest.
The facts as elicited are that some twenty I
years ago John Mitchell, of Ballston, a thor
ough spiritualist and a medium, was informed
by the spirit of Benjamin Franklin that lying
far beneath the surface of land owned by one
Samuel Hyde, thare was a never failing spring
of health giving water. Tbe precise spot was
exactly defined by the perturbed spirit, and
all that was needed to open it to the world
was a confidante in the person of Mr. Hyde,
and some one else with sufficient greenbacks
to defray the cost of excavation and other nec
essaries. Time passed on and the spring re
mained hidden in the bowels of the earth, un
til another communist with spirits, one Elijsh
Comstock, who also happened to be well sup
plied with money, was enlisted in the enter
prise. A copartnership was formed between
Hyde and Comstock, the conditions being
that the last named should furnish the money
for opening the spring, and have a one-third
interest therein. Mitchell, being next to
Franklin, the discoverer, was al**o to have one-
third in tsrest, as was also Mr. Hyde, the own
er of the land. *
In March, 1869, after a lapse of sixteen
years from the time Mitchell was firat in
formed of tho spring by the spirit of tbe
dead statesman, the spring was reaohed at a
depth of 715 feet, Comstock having furnished
the motive power, in the shape of hard cash.
The spring was established, and its waters
have since been drunk by thousands, and it ,
is now estimated to be worth to its owners at |
least $50,000. Things ran along rather,
smoothly until the close of the last year, (
when the usual accounting was to bo made. ,
Hyde and Comatook, for the first time since j
the copartnership, failed to agree regarding j
their respective interest in the profits arising i
from a large business laat s&esou, and this j
agreement resulted in the suit now pending.
The parties were praseut y« sterday, accoui- ]
panied by counsel, and arnoug tbs er
statements made by the plaintiff, Hyde, is
one that he believes Comstock to be possessed
of a power not common with the poor mor
tals of this sublunary sphere; in short, that
he is invested with supernatural attributes,
which causes him to be afraid of meeting j
Comstock face to face. In support of this
statement, Hyde asserted that, on one occa
sion, while passing through one of Ballston a
avenues, he met Comatook. The rencontre
does not appear to have been a pleasant ono,
for the supernatural powers of Cometock were
exerted, but Hyde vanished, and the reaction
of the spiritual medium, Comstock, was such
as to cause the blood to flow in unrestrained
freedom from his nose.
The Journalist.
From the Kaue&s Magazine.
There is ft ia»n who sits far into the Eight
with paste pot and scissors before him, and
pencil in hand, while around him are piled
newspapers of all grades, sizes, colors and
political proclivities and from almost every
conceivable locality. He rapidly cuts, paste's
aud writes. Instinctively he rejects aii that
is had, and his eye detects all that is good in
the nooks and corners of the scores cf “ex
changes” which pass through his hands in a
few hours. If he remembered one-tenih of
all he reads he would be a prodigy of varied
learning, and by and by he would probably
find his place in a lunatic asylum.
Then he varies the wearisome routine
by writing; not slowly and laboriously,
bnt rapidly, discursively and some
times brilliantly. What he does, he does
not just as he pleases, but as a daiiy and un
ending task. Every night as he creeps home
ward in the small hours, the subject of the
next “leader” creeps through his tired brain,
and in the morning the necessity for immense
action stares him in the face, Why these late
hours and this silent, careiul, absorbing
work? This man is the editor cf a daily
paper, and every night he end his compan
ions arc preparing the literary breakfast fer a
sleeping world. It is a strange life he leads,
and a strange world he works in. Ho wields
a power in the land, bet contrary to general
rule, he is almost an unknown man. As a gen
eral statement, neither great pecuniary reward
or fume await him. He does work which
only the man born to the task can success
fully perform. In him are necessary the
qualities of skill, tact, judgment, fair scholar
ship, a large fund of current intelligence, ere',
ness, the capacity for rapid work with few er
rors, and lastly that indefinable talent fer
pleasing the many and offending the few, and
yet accomplishing a specific and often a parti
san purpose! Journalism is a profession, and
the editor is strictly a professional man. To
him belongs only the kind ot fame which per
tains to professional skill, even if he be famous
at alL After years of skillful toil he is almost
unknown upon the street, and bat the credit
ho deserves only among hie equally unknown
brethren of the press. Indeed tbe great ma
jority of the worker* in the world , most po
tent and evanescent literature are not known
at all. Soereely a man in ell Ragland knows
to • certainty who is the tonbraUing spirit of
the London Ynnrs, and there are few wbo care.
In less remarkable instances than that, a news
paper becomes popular, increases in circula
tion , makes itself a pecuniary success and a po
litical power in the land, and not a poor dozen
of all its twenty, or fifty, or haadred thous
and readers ever gives a thought to the per
vading unknown personality that mad? r. all
it is. From these belt it i« plain that jour
nalism is something still more than a profes-
aion ; it is also e passion. Tbe kind ot men
who make a newspaper n nuaeasa where it is
one, are not apt to work for money alone,
even if amply paid pecuniarily. Them is u
reward in it sowewhera, a hop., a gratifica
tion; and that reward must bo in a personal
pleasure in the peculiar work. It is true that
■he projectors and proprietors of newspapers
have generally a pecuniary object in view,
but we are speaking of tho men who daily
make the newspaper all it it in the popular
mind—who actually give it its character and
that wealth which fire cannot destroy, and.
which i« entirely unique in the commercial,
valne-rstimating world.