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Wednesday, May 10, 1865.
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ATLANTA, GA„ MAY 10, 1865.
NO. 113.
ALICE WARD ; OB, HE’S COMISG.
BY PAULINE FOKSYTIt.
i Mowbray came again upon Kitty. .She was t that he had heard often lepeated T>y some
SCHOOL-B/Y DAYS.
BY CnAfU.TK YV1LDWOOD.
When we were young together. Bob,
OH 1 how we romped and 'auglied and played,
And fondly dwelt together, Boh,
Within the sunshine and the shade.
Ali ! we were happy then, and free.
From all the weary cares of life,
ltut those sweet days for you and me
Have changed to stirring scenes of strife.
AVe see no more' the church so rude,
That stood upon the little hill,
IVhere all the tvild wood’s solitude
Was broken by the laughing rill
That jojaed the birdiing’s sweetest song,
As rippling light and tripping gay
It dashed the rosy bowers among,
And quiyered’neath each gorgeous rav..
We miss, dear Bob, the good old man,
Who, with kind looks and gentle hand,
Would teacti onr ideas how to span
Great Learning’s arches, tall and grand-.
His birchen twig, his locks of gray.
Ills sweetest smile and softest word
Have passed forever now away—
His tones are never, never heard.
We miss the songs the bird'lings sung
Through verdant vale and mountain dale,.
The perfume that the roses flung
Unto tlie spring-time’s gentle gale;
And thoughts that wildly sprang and bloom d
On Youth’s bright glowing, halcyon shore,
Are now forever more entombed
Within Uie climes of Nevermore.
Ah ! we have made th se old woods sing
With laughing mirth and romping glee,
When olden songs vre used to siug—
You and I aud Ileitis Lee.
But Bettie Lee has flown away,
And regal-gleaming joyous hours
That walked through Lite’s young morning way,
Have vanished like the frail young flowers.
The chilling shades of after years
Hath hid the sunshine’s glowing gleam,
And bathed in showers of icy tears
My boyhood’s golden feathered dream,
Which like a bird with broken wing,
A bleeding heart all sorrow torn,
Now fiutfers back to faintly sing
And die within my breast—alone.
But well do I remember, Bob,
When you and I wereo nly boys.
Who strolled along the banks, dear Bob,
Of crystal streams of purest joys;
When every heart would sweetly speak
The wooiDg words of artless guile,
And every blooming, blushing cheek
Grow rich with crimson smilles the while.
Oh '. how tlie days come back, dear Bob,
Led by the hand of Memory—
The days of long ago, dear Bob,
Of youthful smiles and revelry;
The days that were and a re no more—
That smiled ’mid vales where joys did ope—
The days that trod young Beauty’s shore,
Beneath the sprlng-hued. sky of Hope.
At twenty-me, George Mowbray found
hi in self not only “lord of himself,” but of ai dug.
handsome fortune, which, by the early death j
ot his parents, had been accumulating lor
several years. Borne business connected
with his properly called him to a small town
in ihe soutbwi s f . of England, and detained
mm there lor two or three months. Finding
but little congenial society in the place, and
being f- nd of an outdoor life, be spent most
ol his time in rambling about the pic uresque
oountry around. Tneie was one spot in
pariicular to which he frtquent y turn* d h:s
steps, attracted by its wild beauiy and pei-
fect solitude. By the side of a stream, over
hung with willows and other trees, and
from whose banks ou either side the ground
rose in abrupt and ragged, though not lolly,
precipices, there was a large rock, in which
a couch as comtorlable as a bed of stone
could be, had been scooped out by some
fantastic ireak of nature. The upper part
ot the rock projected, so that the occupant
of the couch was nqt only protected from
the ray 8 of the t uo, but effectually concealed
from the curiosity of those on ihe bank
above. ,,
Here George Mowbray would come, with
his fishing-rod aud line, aud with a volume
of poetry iu his pocket, and while away a
»4ongeuminer’s day; reading aloud, when he
was tiled of his sport, and making the air
vocil with though-s or Ieeling9, soft, lolly,
or impassioned, as the iancy «.f the moment
demanded. Sometimes a lew sandwiches,
that he brought with him, sufficed lor his
noonday meal; but olteuer bis appetite de
ruanueu the more substautia 1 rtfreshmeul
he could obtain at a country ion, some two
ini es off - .
Occasionally, he would c >mp-sc versts
himself, tor he was in the very hejtlay of
life HLd teeiii g; and he foved to lie and
chant them to the solt summer breizes, se
cure from all unsympathetic listeu^rs. He
had a peculiar turn Jor improvising, aud
would sometimes amuse himse'f foi hours
with his attempts at impromptu vcraiGca
tion, turning into rhyme not only his own
feelings and thought?, hut, incidents and
stories i hat had mane a ay impression upon
him. The burden of most ol his a mgs was
love, auu the < bj ct ot them a c-.i\aia Mar
garet, who figured ui various h i lads, sou
nets, lyrical pieces, ani^i ven aeiodies, lor
so low did Mr. Aiowbray stoop, under » va
riety of uallies, from the stately Margaret
through the simple Maggie and frolicsome
Madge, down to the pet name of Daisy,
which seemed to be his favorite.
By ihe confidential aud touching revela
lions thus made to the regardless earth, a.r,
and water around, it appeared that, true as
Mr. Mowbray asserted his love to be, it had'
so far run vciy smoothly along its course.
Margaret had smiled upon him, friends had
been propitious and, it uo disaster inter
vened, which he impioied fate iu a most
pathetic manner to avert, a few months
would witness the fulfillment ol his wishes
sitting in the sun, trying evidently to re
move all traces ot her late adventure from
her clothes, iiis compassion was aroused
by her uncomplaining patience aud sutfer-
Schaus ok Time.- Try what ycu can
make i f the broken fragments ot time.—
Clean up its golden dust—those raspings and
parings of precious duration—-those leavings
of days and remnants of hours which so
many are sweeping out Into the vast waste
of existence. Perhaps, if you be a miser of
moments—if you be lrugal, aud hoard up
odd minutes, aud halt hours, and unexpect
ed holidays—your careful gleaning may ike
you a long and useful life, aud you may die
at last richer in existence than multitudes
whose time is all their own.
The thought struck him one day that a poqm
somewhat after the style ol -The King’s
Quhair” might be made, describing his first
meeting ami subsequent love lor h.s “eitci-
ed one.” ile was engaged upon this tor
several days, and was reading it, h r about
Uie twentieth aud last lime, when he was
inleriupted by a snfl d shriek. Ai the same
time, s melhing fell from the rock over his
head into lhe switily flowing stream bentalb
him.
He iuvolo.n'arily siretcued out his hand
to grasp the object, and succeeded in bieak-
ing its fall soiuewha'. He pulled it quickly
lrom ihe water, and a little girl, pate and
trembliug, with curls dripping and matted
around her face, stood beiore him, gaziug
upon him with widely open blue eyes, troui
which afl expression but that of terror had
fled.
“P.case don’t tell,” said she at last, iu a
tone of the most urgent cnirealy.
“Are you hurt?” asked Mr. Mowbray,
taking no notice of her request.
“No ; but don’t tell any one.”
-“ vVhy, whom should 1 tell ? What is your
name ?”
“Kitty Jones.”
“Well, Kitty, how did you happen to get
into the water m such a suiprisiug w*\ ?”
The child begau to cry ; but Mr. Mow
bray had ageutt°, encouraging manner,and
ne gradually soothed her and lcdiiced her
to answer nis question. Her replies Were,
given timidiy and reiuc antly ; but from
mem be gather* d that, she had been iu the
habit for s<une t-me ot wa.ching lor him,
and, as soon as she heard his voice iu read
ing or recitation, ot creeping close to the
edge of the overhanging rock, where, siul-
teied by the hushes <md brakes around, she
c mid hear him while here ell peifectly Con
cealed. Blie had been so much init-resied
by ihe story he was telling about the pretty
lady, "she said, that she hauedlar over
the rock to watch him while he told u, aud
so lost, her balance.
Mr. Mowbray leli a great many twingison
hearing that hjp wild flu his ot fancy had
nad such au unwearied auditor. He was
glad that she was a simple, ignorant chiid,
as yet incapable of iioicale or criticism ; od
ihe contrary. Kitly evidently looked, upon
him as a superior b2ing. Her leiierated eu
treaties that ho would not tell led to other
mquirits, during which Mr. Mowbray learn
ed that she l;vtd io a lonely place about
halt a mile from there, wi.h a man and a
woman whom she called uncle aud aunt—a
Mr. Davis aud his wile. Mr. Mowbray h^d
nu t Mr. Davis, or “old Andrew,” as he was
generally calkd, in his fisning excursions,
and had learned that he was a peison of
doubtful cbaractei, who had moved into the
Country witniu the last five years; and, us
Be was rarely kaowu lo worK, aud had no
t s ensible means of support, ne was gener
ally suspected of main laming himself by
mdawiul mean®. Most of tfie potty robbe
ries and llAf 8 of the country around were
ascribed to him, and he was a geueral cb
j-,cf oi terror to all the childreu *.b> u'.
Mr. Mowbray did not wondtr that the
slender, delicate little girl who stood iretn
bhug before him should dread that old An
dievv or his snily wife sh u'd kDow ot her
adventure, especially as she. L»ld him that
they had foi bidden her to go beyond cer
tain limits, or to hold converse iu any way
with any jx.rson. It she was ever address
ed, she was not to reply, but to hasten home
under the pefealty ot a*severe beating. Aud,
by her shrinking terror as she told this, it
was evident that a beating was not an un
known horror to her.
He promised her that he would not reveal
her involuntary visit to him, but urged her
lo lua bom; and change her wet irock. She
turned away with meek acquiescence; and,
unable to continue Lis poem just then, Mr.
Mowbray took up hia fishing-rod. Two
hours after, ou his way home, turning sud
denly around a projectioa of the tfttnk, Mr.
He extorted from her the further confes
sion that she was alraid to go home till
night; that her aunt otten beat her lot noth
ing, and would certainly not allow a wet
irock to go unpunished ; that she bad had
uo dinner; that she otten had none. She
ended by saying that she was not at all
hung, v, which was contradicted by the ev
ident. satisfaction with which she received
the few sandwiches Mr. Mowbray had to
give her.
“You say you like to hear me read, Kit
ty ?’’ asked he.
“Very much. Better than anything in
the world.”
“Then you can come every morning while
I am here and listen to me. You look like
a very quiet little girl, ’ said Mr. Mowbray,
lor his pity was ot an active, not a passive
kind.
Kitty's eye brightened.
“But if Aunt Pnebe should find it out!”
said she, with a sudden misgiving.
“Oh, I'll take care of your aunt Pbebe.—
She shall not be angry with you. I have
a charm in my pocket that will make her
quite*amiable. I have never known it to
tail with any aunt Phebe yet.” -
Kitty evidently did nqt understand him.
“It I can come, I^wffl^’ said she ; “but
you will not tell ?”
“Oh no, ot course not.” And Mr. Mow
bray went lightly on his way.
For the next three weeks, Mr. Mowbray
went regularly to the same spot, where he
wa§ sure to find the child watching for him.
Tnere was something painfully touching in
the sad. wistful little face, over which a
smile seldom flitted. She had a staid, quiet,
old-womanish way that amused Mr. Mow
bray, and he was especially pleased by cer
tain supervision that, with all her shyness,
she assumed over him, watching thathe-did
not go too near the water, or wet his teet,
or allow the sun to shine upon his uncovered
head, or leave his books and papers behind
him, and especially that he should take his
full share ot the substantial lunch lie was
carelul to bring with him. On alL these
points she had a positive, decided way of
expressing herselt that admitted ot no de
bate.
Often Mr. Mowbray would leave his little
companion for a solitary ramble ; but, ou
his return, he never failed to see her strain
ing her blue eyes to catch the first glimpse
ot him. This went on lor three weeks; then,
suddenly she disappeared, and Mr. Mow
bray looked for her in vain. The idea oc
curred to him that she might be ill, aud he
resolved to make some inquiries after her,
lor she had interested him exceedingly.. He
soon found Mrs. Dlvis’ dwelling, a dilapi*.
dated cottage, and, when the woman her-
self came to the door iu answer to his
knock, he did not wonder that Kitty stood
iu such mortal dread of her, flat he had sel
dom seen a person with a more repulsive
countenance. Her manners, too, were
very forbidding; and, when she discovered
the object ol his visit, she almost closed the
door in his face, saying, as she walked ab
ruptly away, that “the girl was very well,
and that she needed no assistance in taking
care of her.” As Mr. Mowbray turned to
depart, alter this repulse, the woman thrust
her head out ot an open window to-say hat
“the idle good-for-nothing was playing
somewhere among the trees near.”
That this was not true, Mr. Mowbray con
vinced himself by a close search. Besides,
he was morally certain that, if Kiuy had
been at liberty, she would not have left him
so unceremoniously. Before this, he had
had some vague plans for making the child’s
position a pleasanter one, by proposing to
send her, at his own expense, jto the village
school or something of that sort; but now,
stimulated by this opposition, he deter
mined not to leave the village in which he
was until he had penetrated the mystery
with regard to Kitty’s movements.
Not having seen anything of her in a
week, he again sought old Andrew’s cot
tage. Receiving no answer to his knock
fur admission, he pushed open the door
which stood a little ajar, ami entered the
kitchen ; there was no person to be seen.—
lie called loudly for Kitty, and at last distin
guished a faiut sound in reply. Guided by
this, he found his way to tlie eellar, which
was bolted on the outside. He opened the
door, aud the little pale face of Kitty was
lilted up towards his out of the darkness.
Mr. Mowbray could not induce her to
venture out ol her dungeon. She was in
too great terror of Aunt Phebe to take such
a step. But he learned that their meetings
had been discovered that tor ten days
Kitty had been confined in that miserable
place, lrom which she was not *o be released
until his departure. Many other things the
little girl told him of the severity with which
she was treated, begging him all the while
to go away, for they had threatened to kill
her if she spoke with him again.
At iasi lie yielded to her rtquest, aud,
drawing the b >U and closing ill i outer door,
so that Mrs. Davis might not su-pect his
visit, he ieiurued to the village. But it was
only to consult tne proper authorities about
the legal means of rescuing the child from
the hands of such miscreants. He hio
great difficulty in doing this ; for Andrew
Davis aud his wite resisted with the most
unaccountable obstinacy the attempts that
were made to lelicve them lrom the charge
ot the little airl, to whom they acted so bar
barously. First they claimed a right to bet
as their niece. But it was proved that Mrs.
Davis had several times denied the relation
ship w ith the utmost bitterness. Then they
brought forward an indenture by which
Kit y J nes was legally bound to mem un-
t;l she was eighteen. It was decided that,
by their cim lty, they had forfeited all claim
upon her in that way; and at last Mr. Mow
bray, having justice, mercy and a heavy
purse on his side, gamed his point, and the
little girl was given up to his charge, as, in
order to hasten the course ol justice, he had
promised that he would be answerable that
she should not come upon the parish.
He was not quite in such a dilemma at
this stage of the proceedings as thoman who
won the elephant in a rafflj ; but he was
very much perplexed to know what he
thoukl do with thp child. His cwn wishes
would have prompted him lo have her
brought up as a lady, for which sphere he
could not help fancying she had a natural
adaptation; bat he recalled a sage maxim
whom he respected as older and wiser than
himsel;, tome tff.ct !hat-“it was a very un
wise thing to raise any one above the posi
tion to which they were by birth entitled.”
He had often been accused of being enthusi
astic aud ii judicious when his feelings were
interested. He determined now to show
himsell very discreet, indeed. She had been
evidently indentured as a servant; she
should be trained for one. So Mr. Mowbray
placed her under the care of a respectable
but poor widow, who promised to be very
kind to her, and bring her up carefully lor
her destined position; a small yearly allow
ance from Mr. Mowbray more than repay
ing her for her trouble.
Pleased with haviog settled matters so
well, he took leave of Kitty, resisting with
great difficulty her earnest pleading to be
allowed to go with him. Apart from her
love for him,which had become very strong,
she had a constant dread ot failing again
into the hands of old Andrew and his wite,
and no arguments could convince her of the
lolly of her. fears. It wa3 with the submis
sion of despair that she at last unclasped her
slender ti gers from his arm ana allowed
him to depart.
Four inornhs had passed away, and Mr.
Mowbray’s wedding-day was now but six
weeks « tt'. He was in the midst of prepar
ations for that event, and for the long tpur
that was to follow it, when he received the
•intelligence that Kuty had disappeared.—
As Mr. Davis and his wile had left the
country, at the ;ame time, there \yas little
doubt bat that the child was again la tlu ir
possession. For a lew days Mr. Mowbray
contented himself with wiif.iog letters and
offering a large reward ‘or Kilty’s recover*;
bu f , these producing no <-ff:et, he resolved
to carry ou the seaich himself; for he was
a m m of most pet severing nature. He had
seldom been known to give up or to fail in
an undertaking.
Mr. Mowbray was then in L >ndoa, wheie
Margaret Ward, the lady to whom he was
engaged, resided. Aber a consulation with
her, mitkich she promised to find a home
for KHly, if he should recover her, beset,
out upou his search. On arriving at the
village where he had left Kitty, iie found the
people generally interested in recovering
the child, but quite at a !o;s as to the course
he should pursue. Each oae had a sugges
tion to make or a plan to propose, but none
could give him the least c ; ue that would be
of any real assistance to him. lie was
obliged to rely entirely on hi3 own sagacity,'
aud the indications by which he was guided
wereio faint and doubtful’that he hardly
knew himself whether they were not the
creations of his wishes and - imagination
ra her than the work ot reality.
Alter wandering a day or two among the
hills and valleys of.Wfah^ he came upon
the little girl sudtletiiy- more by chance it
siemed than by his own good judgment.
He did not rt cognize her at first, far her
curls had been cutoff, her fair skin stained
brown, and her dress changed. But her de
light, a ni >st paiuful in its silent intensity,
and her large blue eyes, sooa c mviaced
him that she was the child for whom he
was seeking. Within aa hour they were
on their way to L >udou. As soon e.3 they
arrival there, beiore going to hia own resi
dence, Mr. Mowbray sought Miss Ward and
placed K : tty in her charge. It was well he
did this ; for, rapidly as they had come to
London, old Andrew was there beiore
them; and Mr. Mowbray, as he alighted at
his own door, saw the old man loitering
near, trying to conceal himself from obser
vation as he watched eagerly, evidently ex
pecting to see another person loilow Mn
Mowbray.
Feeling sure that such conduct could only
be prompted by some reason as slroog as it
was mysterious, Mr. Mowbray resolved to
proceed with the utmost c union. His pru
dent r. solve to bring Kitty up for service
was laid aside; he decided, and Margaret
agree ! with him, that she was too gentle
and delicate for such a life.
There was something exquisitely win
ning aud confiding in her raauner, a singu
lar degree of natural refinement about her
that iuterested every one, while the sau de
jection that was evident iu her countenance
awoke pity. Miss Ward adopted her at
once as a sister, changed her name to Alice
Ward, and w»s at great pains to find a
boarding-school where she would be safe
and happy anti well trained.
One comprising all these advantages was
at iast discovered.. It was in the country,
a. some distance from London; and there
Alice was seat, uu ier the charge of a law
yer, a relation ot Margaret’s, as Mr. Mow
bray, perceiving that he was c'oseiy watch
ed, thought it belter no- to appear in the
matter. It would have been hard eveu lor
oid Andrew to recognz; in-the well-dressed
little girl, who calied Mr. Ward uncle, and
whom ho called Alice, me ragged and half
staived Kitty Jones.
lannedia'tly after his marriage, Mr. Mow
bray left for i'aly, intending tu spend the
winter there on account ot his wife’s health,
wnich had long been aclicaie. He remained
there for eight years, all his intercourse
witu his protegee being earned on by lettei^,
which were regularly exchanged four times
a year. During the second year of his res
idence iu Italy, his wife died. His giief for
her loss was very great. He could not re
solve to leave a spot endeared to him by so
many associations. Besides, a real and
strong love tor art rendered Italy lull ot iL-
tertst to him. Although his weaith preclu
ded all necessity lor exertion, he had a stu
dio where he worked as earnestly as though
itis livelihood depended upon it. This oc
cupation, which he had first taken up as
one means ot preventing his mind from
dwelling with morbid, intensity upon his
loss, became at 1 ist a source ot great iutel-
lectual enjoyment to him, ard he was
thought to display no mean genius iu the
art ha had chosen.
At ihe end of eight years, he was recalled
io England by the toss of nearly ali his for
tune. The same mail that brought the in
telligence of that disaster also brought to
him a letter Hrom Alice. Bhe reminded
him that she was now nearly nineteen, and,
thanking him for all that he had d >ne lor her,
said that she needed no longer to be a bar-
den upon him, and only waited hrs permis
siqn to accept the proposal that had been
made 18 her of becoming a teacher in the
school in which she had passed so loeg a
tyne- She did not allude lo his pecuniary
misfortune, though she was evidently aware
ot it, Mr. Mowbray was pleased by her
letter, bat delayed answering it until lie saw
her in person. , . . , .
His first visit, after an mteiview with his
lawyer immediate! v on his arrival in Lon
don, was to the-secluded village in which
Alice had been placed. He could hardly
realize that the pretty, graceful girl, with
manners at once simple, yet agreeable, was
the poor child who bad formerly awakened
his compassion. The tie that united them
j was a strong and peculiar one. He was the
only living being on whom Alice could feel
that she had the slightest claim, and conse
quently her affection for him had in it a
kind of devotion and of intensity that made
it akiu to love. On his side he was almost
t qually alone. He had no near relatives,
aud the interest of his more distant connec
tions had been cooled by his long absence.
He found his iriends scattered, aud aU his
social ties loosed or broken. It was re
freshing to have one to turn to whose trust
in him almost amounted to reverence, and
who gave him the sympathy and aff.ction
which are so necessary to the happiness ot
most persons.
Tne result was what might have been an
ticipated, when an unfettered gentleman ot
twenty nine aud a lady some ten years
younger are thus brought together. Six
moat ns after his arrival in England, Mr.
Mowbray and Alice Ward were married.
One of the few things that still remained
from his former large fortune was a cottage,
with a few acres ot ground around it, in a
town in the north ot Eaglanl. Tnete he
carried his wile and establuhed himself, in
tending to ?tdd to their very small income
by the practice of the only profession for
which his previous life fitted him, that of
an artist.
He succeeded in this beyond his expecta-
lions, owing, in a great measure, to his un
remitting industry. 'After painting all the
morning, he would spend the atiernooqjn
rambling over the adjoining country, sketch
ing whatever struck his eye or fancy. On
his return from these excursions, he was
always sure to find his wife awailing.him,
either at the window or in the porch, or,
wain the weather would permit, by the cot
tage door or gate, her sweet, thoughtiul face
lighted up by the smile of welcome she
perceived hjm ia the distance. Alter a
while, au infant came lo cheer the lonely
hours of her husband’s absence; and Alice,
as she watched its daily growth in strength
and beauty, wondered it in ali England a
woman could be found happier than her
sell. "
There was an old mansion, somewhat
dilapidated, hut still grand and picturesque,
about five miles iroai Mr. Mowbray’s home,
towards which lie often directed his steps.
The peculiar beauty of the building and oi
the grounds surrounding it, iu which
neither woods,•hills, streams, nor waterfalls
were wanting, afforded au infinite and al
ways pleasing variety ot landscape. He
learned that the property had long been
held by a tatnily of the name pi Lenthal,
but that, by the marriage of the heiress, it
had pss=ed into the possession of a Colonel
Fairchild, who, on being leit a widower,
went to Loidoa, where for many years he
was known as one of the most lashionable
and dissipated men about town. Mr. Mow
bray remembered diitincil, having me; him
daring his own short stay in London, and
being struck win his great personal beauty
and lafcmaied by h s peculiar charm of
manner. About five years after that meet
ing, a severe and incurable Llnesa had put
asuldeu stop to Colonel Fairchild’s gayety,
aira he had retreaded to the country, where,
weakened in body and minc(, he was said
to be under the entire control of his home-
keeper, a Mrs. Daniels. -aBhe had dismissed
all the other servants but one, and often, lor
weeks together, would allow no one but
herself or her son, no’, even the physician,
to approach the sick man.
Mr. Mowbray had been iuformed iha% in
the picture-gallery of the old mansion, there
were some fiae paintings, undoubted or
iginals lrom the best masters, aud he had a
great desire to s^e them. By all that he
had heard, he knew that it was iu vain to
apply to Mr3. Dauiels for perm ssionpo ex
amine them; but he was certain, from the
slight acquaintance he had had with Colonel
Fairchild, tuat his great courtesy would in
duce him to grant so slight a request, if it
could be ednveyed to hun. Afser waiting
for some months for an opportunity to pre
fer his petition in the absence of theleinai^
Cerberus, Mr. Mowbray-, bad the satistac
tioa ot catching a glimpse of Mrs. Daniels
sealed tn a chats: driven by her son in the
direc.ion of the village. He Was at that
time sketching a waterfall near the road,
but hidden lrom it by a grove ol trees. He
lost no tune in approaching the house.
A stupid country girl answered his sum
mons, wbo at first refused positively-to al
low him to enter, but soft cued somewhat
when a crown was slipped into her hand,
and at last eou-enied to take his- card up to
her master. Tne bit of paper could do no
harm, sue said, but she jealously snut the
door to uis lace when sue leli him. She
soon returned and asked him to follow her,
saying—
“Tue master be in a terrible wa*.;” and
before Mr. Mowbray had time lo question
her as lo her meaning, she ushered him into
the presence ol ihe in valid.
Mr. Mowbray saw before him a pale,
emaciated, sliiuafc.cn man, with no trace
about trim oi the once splendidly handsome
Colonel Fairchild, but two brilliant eyes,
which flashed and rolled whii something of
the uncer ai..- glare of insanity.
“Be seated, sir,” said lie abruptly, yet
with a little of his oid grace, while his fin
gers played nervously with the card that
*nad jast been sent up. “Excuse me, but I
have no time for ceremony. I have long
bein dt-s riog a personal iuurview with you;
but your letters have never given me a hope
of seeing you here. It I were not the mis
crable, heiplecS wreic'a you see, 1 should
have sought you myself ioDg ago.”
“I beg your pardon, but I have received
no letters from you.”
“Your name is George Mowbray ? ’
“Yes.”
“You are the gentleman who once passed
a summer in the south of E rglaud, and ob
taiced p; ssession of a little, girl named
Kitty Jonef; are-you cot ?”
•‘Yes.”
“You have since resided principally in
Rome ?”
Mr. Mowbn> bowed.
“Within the last four years, I have writ
ten no lets than twenty letters to you there,”
continued Colonel Fan-child, “to most of
which I have received answers. Here
they art ;” and he drew from a writing-desk
near him a bundle ot letteis, which he hand
ed to Mr. Mowbray.
“These were not written by me,” said Mr.
Mowbray, examining them. “Some oi
them, I see, are dated, within the- last two
years, from Rome, bat since that time I
nave been living in this country." . '
“I suspect as much,” said Colonel Fair-
cbild.
“ Will you tell me if Kitty Jones is still
living? These letters assert and offer to
prove her death.”
“That is as untrue as their signature.
Kitty Jonts is now my wile, Alice Mow
bray;” and Mr. Mowbray related to hia agi
tated listener the history of the child, from
the time he had recovered possession of her,
until then. During the narration, Colonel
Fairchild gradually recovered his compo
sure. When it was finished, he drew fiom
the desk a number of papers carefully ‘ar
ranged and tied together. These he gave
to Mr. Mowbray.
“I have been guilty of a great crime,”
said lit; “for tha last four years I have b< en
trying in vain to. expiate it. I thank God
that I am enabled to succeed in doing jus
tice at last. Those papers will explain ev
erything to you. I am glad you have
come to relieve me of them, for I have
dreaded every day that Mrs. Daniels would
find them aM destroy them. But yet she
seemed so kind and devoted that I felt as
though I were doing wrong to suspect Ler,”
continued he, mournfully. “She is the oJe
whom you know as Mrs. Davis.”
“Is there anything to be done about these
papers ?” asked Mr. Mowbray, seeing that
Colonel Fairchild was sunk iu a gloomy
leverie.
“Yes," said he, arousing h’mself; “read
them to night; you will then understand
matters, aud come here to morrow at this
time, with a lawyer and any friend of yours
as »witness. Insist on being shown to my
room, and the rest I can attend to myself.”
Mr. Mowbray found his wife sitting iu
the bright moonlight, with her child asleep
on her lap,’looking anxiously for him. He
was laterjhan usual, and she had begun to
feel a little anxiety at his delay.
“1 have been hearing something that in
terested me very much, about a intle Kuty
Jones that I knew a long time ago,” said
Mr. Mowbray iironswer to her questionings,
and he related the incident ot the afternoon.
When tea was over,.they turned with
eager curiosity to the examination of the
papers. The first one they opened was
written by Colonel Fairchild, and dated a
few months before. It gave an account of
his marriage with Mrs. Graham, the heiress
of the Lsnthal property, who was then a
widow with oae child, a girt of two yeaia
old, named Catharine ;3 >t Mrs, Fairchild’s
death a few months alierwards, leaving, by
a will made just beiore her second marriage,
a large annuity to her husband, but tho bulk
of her property lq her child. In case ot
Catharine’s death, it was all to revert to Col
onel Fairchild. There wasalater wiil iouqd,
but as it was incomplete,’ it was thrown
aside. By this she had rtversed the decis
ions of the former, giving the estate to her
husband and the annuity to her child.
Colonel Fairchild persuaded himself that,
as this was his wife’s real wish, be could
not be acting very wrong if he carried it
out. Mrs. Graham’s wealth had been her
chief attraction iu his eyes, and to have it
taken from him when it was almost in his
grasp, was a bitter disappointment. He
was ambitious in his own 'way, fond of
pleasure and distinction. To have the means
of gratifying himself in these aims with
held lrom him by a little child incapable of
appreciating them, was more than he eouM
patiently endure. After contending with
these unlawful hopes and wishes for two
years, he at last yielded to the temptation
when it came, accompanied by a favorable
opportunity.
A little girl, daughter of Andrew aud
Phebe Daniels, was a lavorite playmate of
Catharine’s. One day, when they were
both together near the river, Annie Daniels
fell in and was drowned. Colonel Fair-
child came by as Mr. Daniels and his wife
were trying in vain to. recover their child.
He knew them both well, and, a3 soon as
they would listen to him, lie promised the m
a sum which seemed immense to them, if
they would only testify to the death of
Catharine at the same time. He knew that
they were people to whom money was all
powerful as a motive, and he did not judge
them hardly. They consented Catharine
was hurried i-ff to their cottage, and kept
concealed until they could leave the coun
try. Colonel Fairchild detailed minutely all
the stepa he took to avert susj^cioa, and
said that he sued eded beyond his expecta
tions. The yearly allowance he made to
Andrew and nis wife was ample to enable
them to bring up Catharine in com Ion;
but he feared, lrom some circumstances
that had lately come to his knowledge, that
his wish*, s iu that respect had been disregard
ed. He told about his efforts to recover
the child after Mr. Mowbray had taken *
possession ol her, and said that for four years
Mr. and Mrs. Daniels never lost sight lor a
week at a lime of that gentleman, but in
vain.
Then ibis sudden and prostrating illness
had fallen upon him. He rented to the
•country, where he was soon followed by ►
Mrs. Daniels, who, being left a widow, in
stalled herself as his housekeeper and nurse.
At the time she did this, Colonel Fairchild
*wro;e that he was too much weakened iu
mind and body to make any opposition, and
she soou gained great control ovet him, so
much so that, having assured him that Cath
arine was dead, and letters irorn Mr. Mow
bray having confirmed this fiCt, he had
several times been on the point of making a
wiil in favor of Mrs. Daniels and her s jd.
Within the last six months, hia mind had
recovered somewhat, ot its former vigor.—
He recalled various circumstances that made
him think that he was about to be made the
dupe and victim of the same base love of
gold through which he had been led into a
similar crime. He wrote this paper, he said,
in hopes that it he died without having been
able to verify Catharine s death, or to do
jussiee-to her if she were still alive, some
other person might undertake the office.
“I always knew I should turn out a for
tune to you at last,” said Alice joyously,
when they had finished reading Colonel
Fairchild’s revelations. “I had dim remi
niscences of my early life, so very dim that
I did not like to speak of them ; but I see
ifow that they were real.”
Mis Daniel’s impotent anger and dismay
when she found ner plans foiled, would be
difficult to diseribo. But Colonel Fair-
child’s conscience, though late in its awaken
ing, was too thorough in its work to ieave
her any hope of being able to accomplish
her desires. The next day he made, in the
presence of Mr. Mowbray and the friend
and lawyer who accompanied him, not only
a full confession, but au entire restitution of
ail the property to its legal mistress.
At Alice’s earnest r* quest, the real facls
In the case were kept secret as far as possi
ble from the world. Colonel Fairchild was
left in possession of the Lanvhal mannion
until his death, which occurred within the
year; Mr. Mowbray aud Alice meanwhile
showing him the kindness and attention of .
attached children. Mrs. Daniels disappear
ed with her son from the country, taking
W‘th her a large snm of money which she
had gradually amassed iu her long and
wicked service.
It was discovered before her departure
that she had early recogniz:d Mr. Mowbray *
as the one whom she had met under such
peculiar circumstances long before, and in
nis wile her former victim, and therefore
had jealousy avoided being seen by them-
Even after so many years, and under such
different ciicunmances, Alice conld not
meet her without a shudder, and was great
ly relieved at her departure. And though
Mrs. Mowbfay’s subsequent life was a higqly
prosperous and quiet one, she always said
her happiest years were the two she spent
in the little cottage as the wife of an artist,
as yet unknown to fame..
JBP*Tt is no disgrace to be able to do'
everything; but to undertake, or pretend
to do that which you are not made (or is not
only shameful, but extremely troublesome
and vexatious.