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c C i ®bc pfuteMijCHW* PUBLISHED DAILY AND WEEEXY BY JARED I. WHITAKER proprietor. JOHN H. STEELE, miTOi. WEEKLY INTELLIGENCER. Term* of Snbacrfptlon. Daily, for lhe present, per month §25 00 tiiugle copies.; 1 00 Weekly, 1 months 10 10 Advertising Hates. One square one : ns«rtion §5 00 No deduction made tor subsequent ius< lions. ERROR CEASES TO BE DANGEROUS WHEN REASON IS LEFT FREE TO COMBAT IT.”—Jefferson. ATLANTA, GEORGIA. Wednesday, May 10, 1865. NEW BATES. Subscription and Advertisiog. The Proprietor of “ Tub Atlanta Dai ly and Weekly Intelligencer,” announ ces that from and after March 1, 1865— the following will be the rates of these journals for subscription and advertising: Daily, 1 mouth §10 00 a 20 00 “ YYYYYYYYYYYY. Y. 25 00 Weekly, 3 mon lis 10 00 No subscription received for a longer term Ilian three months. .Adverti ing $5.00 for each insertion per •square of ten lines. No deduction made for subsequent inser tion#. legal advertisements. dales of Lind and Negroes, by Adminis trators, Executors or Guardians, are requir ed by law to be held ou the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the Court House in the county in which the prop erty is siluaied. Notices of these sales must be given in a public gazette 40 days previous. Notices of the sale of personal property must be given in like manner, through a pub- ilio gazette, 10 days previous to sale day. Notice to debtors and creditors o f ar es tate, must be published 4C days. Notice that application will be made to the •Court of Ordinary lor leave to sell land or negroes, must be published for two months. Citations for letters of Administration, •Guardianship, &c., must be published 30 ■days—for dismission f rom Administration, monthly six months—for dismission from (Guardianship, 40 days. Rules for the foreclosure of Mortgages must lhe published monthly for four months—for establishing lost papers, for the full space of three months—for compelling titles from Exe cutors or Administrators, where bond has S»een given by the deceased the full space of three months. Publications will always be continued ac cording to these the legal requirements, un less otherwise ordered, at the following RATES: Sheriffs sales per levy of ten lines or less . 510 00 Sheriff's Mortgage fi. fa. sales, per on nn square, ~ u uu Tax Collector’s Sales, per square— . 10 00 •Citations for Letters of Administra tion 10 00 Citations for Letters of Guardianship 10 00 Letters of application for dismission from Administration Letters of application for dismission from Guardianship Application to sell land and negroes, 16 00 Notice to Debtors and Creoitors 12 00 Sale of land or negroes, per square.. Sales tf perishable property, 10 days, per square Estray Notices, sixty days 16 00 Foreclosure of Mortgage, per square, 20 00 For man advertising his wife, (in ad vance) ^ Marriage Notices “ ^0 JSgf All persons writing to this Office will pleusc address tlicir letters or communica- tions to Intelligencer, Atlanta, Ua- 16 00 16 00 16 00 10 00 YOL. 7. 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.