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THS GRASSHOPPER William S. Brirge in the Independent. ;injj tee shoes of the fair quocu, V ,• ( Mas a eonblcr of oil tho fays. •y, >. we. aim p;.rpl?s aud greens end grays; \ -a- p>- old fellow and merry was lie e jit on to>- V.rib of the oid o il. tree; merry any. hoki sat! ever so old, U : ueard ono day wtttu this story waif told: \ bobolink skinr isbinr over the wax, ; a il,-d to the trras.shojvjier. "Sir, good day:"- .-.mi tno grasshopper eol-.biiug still at his shoe, \nsivered tii'iitelv, ‘‘Tile same to you!" \,,j nodded Uis head with a little btnv. Though I couldn't exactly tell you how; ! or toe prince of good manners—-the grasshop ]ior—he. ,\s lie cobbled away in bis old oak tree! ••How much do you make by the day and the weekf * The bobolink asked with a flirt and a shriek: "Three golden leaves of the buttercup's flower Three crystal drops from the latest shower; T hree sacks of meal of the pollen's best That the elves shake off from the cowslip's breast; And iliat doth keep me both well and good— i’or I'm the boss-cobbler of all the wood!” A barefoot boy ns he caw along Had loitered to list to the bobolink's soug, Aud shy a stoue, ns well as he could, At the little boss cobbler of all the wood; "Von cobble a sdjoe:" he cried as he laughed, "You're the funniest cobbler of all your craft; t\ by, vour leather's a leaf and your paste—it is dew? O what a cobbier to cobble a shoe!” but the bobolink' answered with honest wrath, As he ] stored at the boy in the woodland path, "Each one is wisest and skillfuliest, too, That knows just the work that he has to do; For elfin feet those slippers are liest. That arc made from the tiniest leaflet's vest; While Nature’s leather seems fitted for you, As you wear it still!” And away he flew. MORNING NEWS LIBRARY, NO. 2 7. FIVE OLD LETTERS^ BY MISS S. LUCY JOYNER. [Copyrighted, 18S7, by J. H. Estill.] CHAPTER H.— Continued. Jan. IS.—How long it seems since I wrote all that! Jeffrey, can it be that you do not know what I have to tell you, as I sit alone in my room, listening again to the wind and rain sobbing and wailing, as if in sympathy with my empty heart ! Yes, empty —like the house, and all the dreary world. It is over. lam alone. The rain is beating pitilessly on my darling, where he lies, out in the cold. Ob! God pity all who have ever listened to that cruel sound as I now listen to it! God help me to bear it, or my heart will break! Good night, Jeffrey, dearest friend and cousin. If, before I send this packet, I can bear to open my bleeding wouuds, I will tell you all. If not, when time has softened it— they say it will—it must, or I shall die!—l will write again. Jan. 35. A glorious day! Sunshine every where. The far-off hills that I see from my narrow window are swimming in a golden glory of light and shadow. It steals through the little cracked panes of glass, in a warm, glad stream over my bare floor, rests loving ly on the flower-pots that I have neglected so long, and plays over my black dress, and tired hands. But not one faint ray reaches my heart. O, Jeffrey, there is no" light for me in heaven or earth. I worked and smiled, and hoped and prayed, while there w'as one to work for, one whom my smiles could cheer, one for whom I could pray, for whom 1 did pray that God "would, at least, bring her back to him, that he might die with his heart at rest. Too late! oh. too lnt e! As I write, from the adjoining room—his room faint moans roach my ear that make my heart ache with dread and loneliness, for Edith is lying there—Edith, whom my brother loved, and blessed with bis last breath —Edith, whose wild beauty won bis love, whose jealousy broke his heart! Edith, who made his life one long pain with his love and his fears for her future—she is here, sick and alone —dying, perhaps, and I must arouse myself and care for her, work for her, watch by her side, as I did for him, with that terrible “too late!” ringing in my heart. I am weak, weak to-day! I shud der to think how hopeless and dark my soul has grown. O, to lie out yonder in the quiet church-yard, by his side! O, to feel that never again must I take up the burden of life! Let me try to toll you now, Jeffrey, while mv heart goes back over these last sorrow ful weeks. It was in the dead of night, when I heard his voice calling to me; “Bessie! Bessie!’’ Can I ever forget those tones? They awoke me from happy slumbers to realities, the bitterness of which I had never dreamed. I was at his side in a moment. He had not been worse, and we had parted at bed-time most cheerfully, yet, when I saw him, I knew what it was] He was not afraid, he said, and there was nothing to do. He would not have the doc tor—he did not need him. He felt that his life was going out, and he wanted me near him. That was all! All? O, Father in heaven! had it indeed come? what I had feared and dreaded, and wildly prayed to be spared! I had never seen death, and could I face it thus, alone ! I did do it. For a long time we two talked together, loving ly, quietly, sadlv: and then the cold damp gathered on his'brow, and I watched him, breathing hard, looking at me with voico less pity in his eyes, while I held his head on my breast, pressing passionate kisses on the lips that could no longer speak to me, fouling, with what despairing agony I can never tell, that he was slipping from ino, and all my love could not keep him; that his feet were in the dark waters, and I could not help him! When the dawn came, and great, ghostly shadows were filling the room, I held him still in my arms —clasped close—with his dear, dead face smiling up into mine. The very shadow of doath was upon my soul. Ido not know how long I sat thus. I di<i not know who It was that lifted my dead from my arms, at last, and led me away, until I found myself lying on my bed, and heard Mrs. O'Flannigan’s henrtsome tones, talking to nurse. “An’ so she wouldnx call ye. as would save her ivory fret, intirely, if bnly ye could, but jist set there, in the dead o’ night, a huggin’, an’ a huggin’ o’ his poir dead body—as if, poir thing, she could iver hug any loifo into that cowld day. O, an’ it’s b( 1, for shurc!” Hero I hoard a sob. “I don’t mean to giv way, for it’s meself as should hearten the rist "of ye, but it’s enuf to take the heart out of a liody to think o’ how she looked whin meself aud the koind docthrer wint in—jist a settin’ there, all scared, loike. with nor eyas looking for all the wurruld like two great blue stones, and her poir face as whoite as the dead man's. Och! Mistiness Nurse, niver, in all me days, have I seen sich a howly and divoino look on the face of iny human, livin’ or deoil. It seemed to sav roiglit to mo heart: 'Ah! M isthress O'Dlaiiuigiii, it's all roight, in tirely, with me, now. No more scufflin' with this warysome loifo, niver a bit of rint to bother over here, for.’ the swate smoile teemed to say, ‘this hear is kevvin, and this hear is rest, and the blissid Christ and the rowly Saints is a boinding up me wounds, erd a pouring of oil into me heart.’ It’s swate ard claim in tlm room, and the doc threr'a fetched a tnino chance o’ blossoms, and I bought a u hoite rose, and it’s Biddy O'Klannigrtn as laid it on his broast, her own *ilf, fur he niver held hissolf above the jo.kos o’ mo, didn't Mr. Harrud, an' he’d al ius a koind wurrud for Biddy, an’ sure an’ I know'd ns she ns were his dnrlint wouldn’t niyer take it amiss—not she, God bliss her— ho, a lookin’ that oarrum and peaceful, loike. O, but the tears will come into these ould eye* o’ motne whin I think o’ that poir Ifinb. Ro j(gt pick up heart, honey, an’ don’t lie a givin’ way to ro own foelinks, tho sure an’it’s but nat’ral you should feel J bit rut up, fur it's koind to’ you he we.rc; hut dry yOT.iJj’efJ and look aftner the young luiuhrcj, an' it’s aacrilf as will help ye ivery ininr.it I can stale from me man, fur he s a bit graspin', is Dennis, an' none o' the gentlest o' men to daje with.” All! Biddy: kind, true hearted Biddy! I wonder if anything could have touched me as did your rough, homely words! How, at thought of your white rose, lying on his breast, the warm, healing tears flowed for the first time. llow your description of tho pure, peaceful face roused me from the stupor of gr.ef that had fallen upon me, to hasten to <my darling’s side. A few hours later, nurse came to sav that a woman wished to see me below, i shook my head, and begged not to be disturbed. Presently there was a knock at the door. I arose to open it, and Edith stood before me! She was scarcely changed. The same command ing figure, the same colorless face, lit up with weird-looking black eyes—sad eyes they were, always, but now, as they met mine, so full of horror aud pain that I could not bear to see them, I could not speak the unkind words that were in my heart, as I thought of all she had made him suffer. I only pointed to that still figure. I knew the patient, weary face would be reproach enough. With her old queenly grace, she crossed the room and stood beside nim. Not a tflettior of the proud lips, not a quiver of the eyelids, told of any emotion. She stood there, motionless and calm, before the man who had been .her husband. It drove me mad. “Woman!” I cried, “have you no heart? Can you stand thus unmoved before the ruin your own hands have wrought? He loved you, and you only; he would have died for you, and you broke his heart! the tonderest and truest that ever beat in mortal bosom!” Whatever else I might have said died on my iips, for she turned and looked at me. I shall never forget the dumb entreaty of that 100k —its hopeless agony! I crossed the room and lifted the sheet from his dear face. “Edith,” I whispered, “forgive me! If you loved him, forgive me! He left you his blessing; your name was the last on his lips." As she caught sight of the rigid face, so still, so sweet and grand in the majesty death sometimes lends, a lov? cry broke from her lips, and the next moment she was sobbing tumultuously on his breast. “O, Harold! O, my darling! I loved you —I loved you! I would give all the years of my life for one word of forgiveness from those white lips!” I was powerless to comfort such grief as this, and I left them alone together. ” When I went back, an hour later, Edith was sitting on the floor, with his hand in her’s, talking iueoherently to herself, or to him. I caught the words: “Yes, I have come back to you, and I will never leave you again—never! And I shall never be jealous again, and call you cold because you are quiet, for I know you love me; oh! yes, I know it now!” Then a wild, despairing cry: “Too late! too late! He will not speak to me—he does not even tell me that he for gives me’” Even then fever had set in, She has not been conscious since. It is dreadful to hear her piteous cries for forgiveness. Dr. Hawks is very kind. I forgive her now, and, God knows, my heart has bled for her. She has been more quiet to-day, aud the doctor says there is some hope. I have not spoken of Josie, because my grief for her has been so bitter I could not bear to speak of it. I said my dear brother's last words were of Edith. That was the passion of his life. I never knew until then how much he had loved her; how he had worn her image in his heart, through all these weary months; how he had watched for her return to the very last; how perfect his love was, in that, at imy moment, he was ready to take her back to his heart. But quite as tender, though different, was his love for Josie, his “baby girl,” he always called her. It was hai and for him to go without a last good bye from her —hard for him, yet, oh! so much harder for her—to have to hear the dread ful news, all unprepared for it, as she was, ahd so far away! When she did hear it, she could not come, just to kiss his sweet face once, as she so longed to do, because she had not the means to come and return, and she could not afford to lose her place. O, grim, hideous poverty, how many heartaches you have given our ill-starred family! So there was nothing to do but bear it alone—we two who could so much have lightened it for each other —for Josie is brave, as well as tender, and she is all the world to me? Feb. 20.—1 have not had the heart to send this bundle of egotism. It bears so many different dates that I ought not to send it, at all. But, somehow, I want you to know'. Do you remember how you used to beguile me into tolling you all my secrets? Once, when Josie was playing “Queen Mary,” and beheaded my prettiest wax doll, how' I sob bed it all out on vour breast? That is your great charm, Jeffrey—the silent, subtle power of sympathy. How well I remember when you first came to us, at your mother’s death,"u boy of 12, so full of your loss that your lips would quiver and your eyes fill at every mention of her name, and yet strug gling manfully to be merry with the rest of us! I ought not to have gone back to those dear old days. Ah! it seems like another life! You will feel as if you are reading a novel when you dome to tho last event in my chapter of sorrows. How strange that such things are happening every day in tho world around us, and yet, when they come into our own lives, they seem too horrible to be borne. I am not so I was. I do not know what I might ha™ been, but for Biddy’s loving philosophy. “It's yourself as has a dale o’ trouble, my lamb,” she says to me, “an’ yet there bo miny a heart in this gret city as has all the throble as makes yer own "ake an’ throb, with niver a bit o’ the blissed eomfurt; aye, sure an’ miny a heart as is heavy with keel's, an’ with sin an’ crime, too, for the matter o’ that, an’ all because there’s niver a soul to say a koind wurrud, or do a koind dade, while it’s yourself as has the swate mimories o’ your darlint, an’ a clane heart, for sure, as knows it done it's dooty by him, and not loike the poir leddy a reproachiu’ of itself from morrun till noight!” You nni'tjjot get tired of Biddy O’Flan nigan’s talk, for she always says the right thing. For all her coarse hands and red face, she has a true woman’s heart. It is wonderful, the tact and delicacy that under lie some of her rough sayings. Edith has been very, very ill. A week ago she was better, and could sit up nearly all day iu her room. But she took no inter est in anything around her. It was heart rending to see her sitting there, her great eyes full of a settled despair, refusing all comfort, and looking so utterly desolate. There was little I could say to her. Once I asked her if it would not comfort her to talk of him, and she put up her hand, as if I had struck her. “Not now,” she said, “not now!” I strove in many ways to cheer her, but in vain. Sometimes I’would read to her, but I knew from her eyes that she did not hear me. One rainy day, when I had been out, I met her on the stairs, wrapped in a shawl from head to foot. “Why, Edith!” I cried, “you are not strong enough to go out; where can you lie going?” “1 must go to the churchyard,” she said, hu.xkilv, “perhaps it will help me.” I knelt down before her on the stairs, and put niv arms around her. “Efith! Edith! this is madness! Youaro risking your life. Wait a few days longer, and I will go with you. It is a sweet, quiet sjKit. and—ah! yes, 1 know how you long to go; but j'ou must not go yet!” Like a tired child, she yielded, and drop ped her head on my shoulder. I helped her to her room, and laid her on her sofa, and for hours sho lay there sobbing, in utter abandonment. I could not sleep that night. Once I thought I hoai'd a noise on the stairs, but, as it was not repeated, I tried hard to com ikisc mvself. But a strange, restless feeling quite possessed me, and finally I dressed aud wont into Edith’s room. The lamp burned dimly— a few coals were in the grate. 1 went very softly to Edith’s bod, to see If she slept. It had not been touched. I groped my ivny to the sofa. It was empty. 7 grow sick wit h horror, os the truth burst upon r.i. Edith was gone! Where? and for what 1 I knew oitjf W+rtM. I turned |up the light, ana, a* TMgtcte d, there was a THE MORNING NEW r S: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1887. note, feebly scrawled, with trembling fingers; alas! for her broken heart! her wrecked and ruined life! “Bessie, whom my husband loved, whom I now’ love more than anything in this life, you have been good to me as an angel of heaven, but even for you I cannot live. All day and all night it rings in my ears: ‘He loved you, anil you killed him—yes. killed him, as surely as if you had taken his life blood.’ When I shut my eyes I see his still, awful face, as I saw it that day—beautiful aud hoaveulv, but so far removed from such as I. It said to me then, it says to me uow: ‘Woman, this is your work; there is a gulf between us. Where God has taken me, you can never come!’ You would beg me to re pent, but it is too late for that. Do not seek me, Bessie. It will all be over when you read this. The river is near, and its low moan lias been beckoning me to come all day. You will see him again some day. O, child, take him Edith’s undying love, aud tell him she has atoned for her sin!” What did I do? There was no time to lose, surely. She would go first to the churchyard. I knew that, and it was my only hope. I called up my fearless Biddy, and, with Dennis and nurse following at a little distance, we hastened to the river landing; It was not quite dark. A young moon was struggling with dark cloud masses, and showed us the bridge and tho murky waters, and the weird-looking barges on its bosom. She was there before us. Too late! too late! again the madden ing words rang in my ears; for the tall figure, standing on the bridge, lifted its arms and clasped them above its head for a moment, then plunged into the black waters below. But Dennis sprang after her, while Biddy aud I waded knee-deep into the water, ready to help him with his burden. He struggled bravely, and presently laid Her in our arms, and then, sheltered from notice by the darkness, be carried her in his strong arms and laid her, dripping aud ap parently lifeless, on her bed. It was long before she was conscious, and for two days and nights we thought the feeble spark of life would go out. at any moment. But God was merciful, and spared the life she had rashly taken into her own hands. Sho is better now—better in body and mind, and she bos told me everything. How the knowledge of her humble birtn, and her husband’s unsual devotion to his sisters, maddened her with jealousy. She did not understand the quiet strength of his love, and, she harbored these jealous doubts until her whole nature became embittered. Then, when she knew even liis generous nature had been tried too far, and she felt he was estranged from her forever, she could bear it no longer. She had wanted to go back to him, but was too proud. Had she known in time of his poverty and ill ness, nothing, she said, could have kept her from bint. When she did hear it, she hastened to his side, and reached him just one day too late! She had a music class in K , but last week they wrote to iuforrn her that her place had been supplied; the}’ could not wait for her longer. I am so thankful to help her. I know it is what my brother would have wished, and I think’ he must look down approvingly on our new friend ship. I will not write another page! It is ask ing too much of you to read all this. If you ever pray (and you know you used to) ask God to give me patience, for I need it sorely, sorely. Your cousin, Bessie Harwood. CHAPTER 111. A few tears fall on this letter, as I fold it and lay it away with the first. Then I shut my eyes (my fire has quite died out) and call up pictures from my past. How they troop before me! —gay ones and sad ones; but one shining out clear above the rest. A dusky room; a few chairs; a table with a dark green cover, and some choice books; a high mantel, decorated with a trailing plant that hides its bareness; a vase of hyacinths on a stand near the window, and the smell of violets in the room. A joutig girl sitting in the shadow's. A slanting sunbeam strays through a crack in the shutter, and falls on her hair —yellow hair that looks in the shimmering light like burnished gold, and shines out in my picture like an aureola around the fair face. Such a sweet face it is! So full of all that is pure and womanly! So full of all that is brave, and true, and tender! Lurking in the corners of the mouth that have a weary droop, there are proud lines, but no bitterness. The eyes look wistful, through all their steadfastness, and all the sadder because they are eyes that seldom weep. This is my fourth letter: , June 4, 18—. My Dear Jeffrey: How strange to think of your having been in this very room a week ago! It seems like a dream—your coming to me that evening. It was like you to give up your travels when you heard that I was in distress, and like me that I re fused to let you share your fortune with me, and made you cross. I am always blundering. I have a haunting fear that we are not quite as good friends as we were. You are, and still you are not, what I expected to And you. There was a reserve about you that was not like your old self. That I tell you this is proof that I, at least, am perfectly frank with you. I cling so to old ties. You have always been my best friend, my bon comarade, and, as in your letter you beg me to continue my confidences, lam falling again into the old habit. An other thing that annoyed me a little was that you did not seem in the least to admire my friend. Dr. Hawks, but spoke rather sarcastically of the “saintliness of his bear ing.” Now, that was not kind. But I shall forget it all now that you are absent again. I have missed you very much. You do not know, perhaps, how well you talk; how perfectly you combine the rare, gift of elo quence with pleasant manners and good taste. For instance, you tell me of dining at Lord 's. You say frankly that it was an accident, as you ore simply an American citizen, nith no titles, or other claim to dis tinction. I know that your patrician face and manners (excuse * the compliment) marked you as the peer of the proudest of his guests, especially when introduced by your distinguished friend, Mr. . But you only describe the noblemen present, and the English customs, and I bear no silly egotisms such as this: “Lord told me in confidence, that,” etc. “I told him if he took my advice,” etc. I have heard several learned travelers talk in this style, and I rather feared it from you. I like your modesty. Is this too much to say to you .- But, seriously, Jeff, you must like Dr. Hawks. I am going to confess to you, as usual, but I am not quite sure that this con fession will ever fall into your hands It was two days ago. I had been unusually busy, and, when my day’s work was over, found it too late to go out alone. I was tired. That morning I had received a letter from roy sister. She was married, in the early spring, to Lynn Wallace, a nephew of the lady in whose family she was staying. I had her with me a month, and then he came; and one morning we went quietly to the little church beneath whose shadow our brothel'sleeps; and the solemn words wore said that made them one. We went out from the church in the sweet sunshine, and stood together, for a few moments, over our darling’s grave, while the birds sang in the boughs above us, as if delirious with toy: anu, though tears wars in hor eyes, 1 Knew the songs were echoed in her pure heart 1 They left me there, and I—well, no matter what I did —she was gone and I was alone once more! But tho letter, fihe said that her husband wished to offer me a posi tion which my pride could not And the shadow of aii excuse for refusing. Ho wanted mo to take charge of his business correspondence. He had found it nooewary to have someone. and they wanted no one but me. I smiled when I iiad finished the long letter, so full of pleading, and of the necessity of my going at once. It was tempting. But alas! the pleasant work roust b done by other bands than mine. Nothing surer than that. I could not leave Edith hero alone. My duty lay plain be fore me. So I mused as I stood by the window, in tho gloaming, watching the doinia—heavy aria dark they were—drift ing wildly and purposelessly through the amber glow of tli -.unset, Like uiy life, 1 thought, and then the very bitterness of desolation swept over me. 1 thought of my dead aud of my living—both having drifted beyond me. A fragment from Mrs. Brown ing came into my bead: “My heart is very tired- mv strength is low— Mv hands are i nil of blossoms plucked l>efore. Held dead within them till myself shall die." Sweetest of poets! The words stirred my soul to its depths, and the last barrier of self restraint gave way. I covered my faee with both hands, and reckless sobs burst from me. Like a hurt child, I felt there was nothing left mo but to sob out my pain in wild weeping. Then a hand was laid on my head, with a touch as tender and rever ent as a woman’s. It was the doctor’s. I did not look up or speak to him, but listened, like a child again, to his quiet, soothing tones. Not that he said much. I scarcely know what ho said. But surprise, grief, and most tender sympathy, I knew he felt. So I let him load mo to the sofa, where I dropped my head again. The tears, once started, seemed to flow from fathomless depths, and I could not stay them. When I could look at him, I was struck by tho stern, sad composure of his faee. “It is as I feared,” he said, “you have broken down at last, under this unnatural strain. You are only a woman, you see, after all, with flesh, and blood, and nerves.” There I interrupted him, impatiently. I told him that I was far less than a true woman, or he would never have seen me so weak. I bogged him to go a wav. I said he had no right to be there, when I wanted no one. He took my hands then, aud held them, and spoke to me as he never bad be fore; with a certain air of authority that I submitted to beca use—l could not help it. He said he knew what this meant, that I was wearing out my strength with the life of confinement I led. He said (which certainly was not true) that I was sacrific ing the best part of my life to Edith; that while it seemed most beautiful to him, yet he could not boar to sje it; that I needed change aud rest, and that I must have it. “If you value your life,” lie was saying. I had been listening to him with that dreary listlessness that follows sharp pain, mental or physical. “I mean this very seriously,” ho went on. “If you sot any value on your life—” My wits were sadly at sea, for, miugled with the passionate protest that rose to my lips, the words an old woman had once said to me of her littlo sick child (that had cried out, “O, I wish I could die!” kept repeating themselves in my brain, with a ludicrous appropriateness. “To think it should set so little vally on its little life,” the woman had said of the child, and she had laughed and laughed, as if it were a wonderful joke 1 How we had laughed, too! not at the child, but the woman—ah! and then there came a picture of rnysolf and Josie in those careless days of early youth, laughing at everything in very gladness of heart. “If you place any value on your life!” The words, repeated earnestly, brought, me back to the present. I answered bitterly. Why should I value it? Was it so fair a thing* I begged him again to leave me alone. I was tired—sick of my life. I can not tell you how those words seemed to grieve him. He said that if I did not value it, it was most fair, most precious to him. Then he spoke once more of his love. He said that only God knew what it would be to him to have mo lor his wife, but that if he had not seen me unhappy he would never have asked me again. lie knew, he said, how bitter must be the grief that could wring such tears from me. He said he was very lonely, but he should live all bis life alone, unless I came to him; he could never marry another woman, having known me. “If you love no one else better,” ho looked earnestly into my eyes while ho emphasized the words, “you may learn to care lor me a little. Bessie, my brave, sweet Bessie, am I asking too .much* Am I grtjfving you so much, my child?” The foolish team were blinding me again. Then he bent over me and said he would go away, that I could not think how those tears unmanned him. He askod me to think of what he had said, and, begged me not to let the thought of his gridf at losing me in fluence my decision: to ask my own heart if it could content itself with nothing better than his great love. He said again that he would not have troubled me if he had seen me happy; that he would come for my answer tomorrow, and then he bade me good night. And, when he came next day, I laid my hand in his and told him that I would marry him: that I did not love him as I had thought I should love the man I married, but that I honored him above all men, and his sympathy was very sweat to me. Ido not yet know if I have bees true to myself and to him. How can we tell always what is in this puzzling human heart of ours? “If I know my own heart,” we sometimes say, but do wo ever quite get at the bottom of its changing moods? To-day we long with bitter yearning for something which we hail yesterday, but, having, did not prize! When I am with Robert there is a quiet sense of being tenderly protected, that, is infinitely soothing, but with that a kind of self-reproach, a feeling that lam receiving very much more than I can ever give. He seems very happy. IVe havo boon planning some improvements in his already elegant place. His mother died three years ago, and he has lived there alone sluoe then. I know that I am not good enough for Rob ert, but I hope he will make me better. I must always be a better woman for having known two such stroug, sweet natures as his aud my brother Harold’s, They were dear to each other, and it seems but right that, having lost one. I should look up to and love the other, for his sake. It is wrong, is it not, when one’s destiny seems carved out, to have other plans or dreams* I think I am learning to be sonsiblo. June 17.—How I do trespass on your kind ness! Your second letter, received yester day, has encouraged me to send what I have written. It is strange that you should fauey I hud changed toward you—very strange! I must send this now, if only to prove how mistaken you were. It is a little sad that we both should have been disap pointed in that first meeting. The truth is, you did not stay long enough to get over the strangeness of being together. You will come again, will you not? But will it bo the same? Will ’anvthing be the same when I am—there? There is a dangerous element of freedom in my nature. I cannot bear to settle, though I am quite old enough. If I had been a boy 1 should have been a sailor, perhaps. We might have sailed around the world together. I have already learned to be obedient. I have loft Edith, with my work, in Rob ert’s care, and have come to make Josie a visit. Sho is very lovely as a wife. Sho is a jieerless woman. There are no rough edges in her character to be smoothed over with ever so much trouble. She is so thoroughly sunshiny, and radiates bright ness in every direction. She is one of tho:e beautiful creatures who soem born to love aud be loved, to be happy and give happi ness. There are such natures, and how lov ingly the Father must regard those children of His love, I met her father-in-law to-day. He is a thin, wiry-looking little man, with long, slim legs, that twist and wind about each other, und somehow make you think there are more than two of them. His arm* havo the same peculiarity, giving him, with his little body in the middle, the appearance of a daddy-fonglegs. Such a violent contrast between this withered bit of aristocracy and his fine, maniy son! He always begins to talk as if a question had been asked him. “Eh? Yes,” he says to me, in his thin voice. “Harwoods, of Harwood Place! Fine old family—very! As old au any in the land. Money Is a great thing, my deal , aud not to he despised. But, as Ijfcola Lynn, when ho set his mind on marrying a poor teacher, say* I: ‘lf he is a Harwood, she will do, I suppose, but I should never want a portionless bride. ’ ” How such on insignificant and one-idead, but wholly harmless little being, could Im-c formed such a character os Lynn’s, I could not imagine until 1 saw bis wife’s )*>rtrait. A clear-cut, flue dark face, the eyes shining with intellect, and strength of purp*Me stamoed on each feature. Since then the wot Mir has beta, by what queer freak of destiny those two should ever have been mated". Her sou is very like her. and he never looks so well as when near his sunny haired wife, who sets off his dark beauty perfectly. .Tonie does uot seem to notice the want of delicacy in the old man's remarksabout her self, an"d they are both very patient toward hi weaknesses. Yet Lynn's handsome face clouds heavily sometimes, and I know that it is tho regret of his life that he cannot re spect iiis father. So you see there is no life into winch sotno shadow does not creep! £to be continued.] CASH GONE AND LEG BROKEN. Deplorable Condition of a Once Wealthy Younif Man. From the Few York Times. The story that Andrew Bowno, who claims to be a sou of ex-Congressman Bowne, of this State, told, as he lay yes terday on his bed in the United States Hotol, Newark, is a peculiarly sad one, and the addition that the officers of the Young Mcu’s Christian Association of that city make to it increases its interest. Bowne was brought into the hotel a few days ago drunk, and. on investigation, it was found that his leg was broken. He was ragged, and his body was covered with dirt. Capt. Donovan, the proprietor of the hotel, would not have taken him in except for sympathy for the unfortunate wreck. Bowne did not remember how he broke his leg, but supposed it occurred in a sa loon where he had been drinking. He had been in Brooklyn, lie said, to testify in a Surrogate’s case, and a lawyer had given him money. With this he immediately be gan visiting saloons till ho lost control of his actions. He got back to Newark and tried first to get into the Continental Hotel, but there was no room for him there. He is still sick from the effects of bis spree, and his leg is very painful. The man has no money left. His story is tho old one of a rush down hill from a high financial prominence to the dregs of penury. Some fifteen years ago his grandfather loft him a comfortable ostate, which was variously computed us worth from $500,000 to $700,000. It in cluded real estate on down-town streets in New York anil bonds and stocks. He was fast, and soon converted everything into cash and began to lead a wild life. His wife was forced to leave him, and his friends and relatives were compelled re luctantly to give him up. Between drink ing and gambling his money wont like the wind, ami in eight years he hwi run through his fortune. At lucid intervals ho would realize what he was doing and rally momen tarily, but in vain. His speculations proved failures and the old appetite beset him with increasing power. Five years ago ho was wandering about tho streets of Newark, having reached tho end of his money. Ho applied to charitable institutions, and some of the managers of the Young Men’s Christian Association became interested in him as he told the above story. They tried to help him to reform and be a man once more. His follies wore repeated, however, and the funds they supplied him were spent in drink. Finally, he obtained work as a stableman at Whippany. N. J., and later worked on a farm. He is also said to have obtained employment on the New York Central and Hudson River railroad for a time, but could not keep his position. He had been at Whippany for acouplo of years previous to bis latest, debauch. His next step will probably be into the charge of an overseer of the poor. The New York eliaritable institutions feel that it is useless for them to waste money upon him. He is now 40 years old. Capt. Donovan says he will keep him for a time. He has been ■looking for friends of the man. A letter was found in his pocket from a woman who had evidently helped him, but had given .him up. In tho letter she said his judgment was a hard one, but advised him to go to a hospital. MISSISSIPPI BERPENTS. How Four King Snakes Cleaned Out a Nest of Rattlers. D. B. Racket, a colored man living ten miles east of Coffeyville, Miss., came into town accompanied by his son, and pretty soon a marvelous snake story was floating around. A coirospondent sought out the the two negroes, ami obtained the following: Dan, the elder, with the son, lmd climbed the hillside near their cabin to chop wood, but after giving a few strokes on two hickory trees near a large rock, both were startled by hearing a terrible hissing and rattling immediately in their rear, mid, on turning; about:, had perceived fifteen or twenty rat tlesnakes of ull sizes crawl from under the rock. “Run, Tom, fo’ de Lord, run,” yelled old Dan, as he threw down ms ax and dashed down tho hill with his son immediately be hind him. After going about fifty yards, both had stopped, and, alter some five min utes spent in discussing the situation, agroed to go back far enough to get a “peep at the rattlers.” So, cutting two stout sticks to inspire confidence, they again crept up the hill, but on coming within sight of the rock not a snake was to lie seen, and old Dan was just rubbing his eyes to look again when his son yelled: “H yi! de kings hab got’em dad.” On looking around Dan perceived four large king snakes approaching the holes in the rock, and now commenced a peculiar battle. The king snakes ap proached the holes carefully, but when about to enter were viciously struck at by the rattlers, who exposed their heads only for an instant in making the strike. What followed can be best toid in the negro's own words: “Wen (loin four kings seed (ley couldn’t git in de holes widout bein’ bitten, dey consulted suh, an’ den two of ’em went ter one hole an’ two of ’em to an other. One king would set up close and lay still, don the other would make the old ratller strike at him, an’ de fus’ one would nab ’im an’ choke ’im ter death. Den dey would drag 'iin out an’ go ter another hole. Dey kept ilis aeshun up, sab, until ’leben grown rattlers was layin’ on de groun’ dead, den dey left.” This was the old ne gro's story, and as one “king” has been known to kilt throo rattlesnakes in open battle, it is generally believed. AN OCEAN PROVE ROMANCE. How a Bad New York Broker Managed to Steal a Wife. Jt'rqni Town Topiet. I board,pf p vary peculiar marriage that took place in the auditorium in Ocean Grove that sounds almost like a romance. A young Now York broker fell in love with a coun try gjtl vtfhj.e summering here, but the mother, wliij seems to have linen a sort of she riferfoii',' objected to the suit. She had possibly bad'some experience in her own life, for she averred that “ail New York men vya^Jfla&ys - ’ and would not let the bod broker nu; her ewe lr,mb. The old lady was very'religious, and took her daughter to tile atldltortuhi otyj Sunday to hear Dr. Dooms ‘pi-e.tntfe; What was her indignation whop, in tt*,rf‘lstof a hymn, the young bro ker entered with a friend and took up their seats on each side of tho young lady, never heeding the mother’s frown. As tne service proceeded she noticed that her daughter and the two men wore tulking a great deal together during tho prayers, and her indignation knew no bounds; but she did not want to make a fuss during the prayor. When the services were all over she tin ned to her daughter with a snarl and said: i “You just wait till 1 get you home, miss.” “But she is nut going home,” said the young broker. “Not going homer gasped the mother. “Not to your home, anyway. This lady is my wife. My friend fa a minister and during the services he has married us. Good-day.” And he walked coolly away with his prize on his arm, leaving a very foolish old woman behind. Young or middle-aged men, suffering frjtin nervous debility or kindred niToctions, slieuld address with 10c. in stampH for large treatise, World’s Dispensary Medical Asso ciation, Cvxi iiaui street, iiudalo, ri, Y. 1 DRV GOODS. GUSTAVE ECKSTEIN’S POPULAR DRY GOODS DOUSE Will offer THIS WEEK special bargains in the following Departments in order to open the Fall Trade. NEW FALL DRESS GOODS. 27-inch Fancy and Plain Colored Dress j . - Goods, suitable for marketing, shopping Ihf* Y £ll*ll and Children's school dresses, - - - lUIUt NEW GINGHAMS AND SEERSUCKERS, In a hundred beautiful patterns and 1 -- . colors, Plaids, Stripes, Checks and combi- ft!if 1 Yfirfl nations. Prettiest goods ever produced, ) As an extra in lucement we will sell for three days only; 500 yards BLACK GROS GRAIN SILK, 600 yards BLACK SIJRAH SILK, 500 yards BLACK SATIN MERVEILLEUX, 500 vards BLACK BROCADED SILK, AT ONE DOLLAR YARD. These goods will be separated from the regular stock and will be sold only on MONDAY, TUESDAY and WEDNESDAY. Still another Inducement —One Case Each, Only: 4-4 UNBLEACHED HOMESPUN sc. 4-4 BLEACHED SHIRTING Hc. 10 4 BLEACHED SHEETING 19c. BEST FEATHER TICKING 12!4c. NOW READY,—Splendid Stock of BLANKETS. FLANNELS and QUILTS To start, the ball rolling we will sell, TIGS WEEK ONLY. 100 pairs WHITE WOOL BLANKETS at $1 75 PAIR, that you will uot he able to duplicate later on for $7. Come and see for yourself that WE MEAN WHAT WE SAY. EC IC ST E I N* S. NEW FALL GOODS. E. GUTMAN, 141 BROUGHTON STREET. We Dave Just Opened Our New Fall Dress Trimmings, Consisting of Jets and Braids. —also — LACE FLOUNCINGS AND ALL-OVERS TO MATCH. NEW HOSIERY, NEW HANDKERCHIEFS, NEW JEWELRY, NEW COLLARS AND CUFFS, NEW POCKETBOOKS, NEW HAIR ORNAMENTS. Our celebrated GLORIA UMBRELLA at $1 85; with Silver Handles, $2 85. Six New Styles of 33ustles. E . G UTM _A_ N . LITHOGRAPHY. THE LARGEST LITHOGRAPHIC ESTABLISHMENT IN THE SOUTH. TIIE 4 Morning News Steam Printing House SAVANNAH. GEORGIA. THIS WELL KNOWN ESTABLISHMENT HAS A Lithographing and Engraving Department which is complete within Itself, and the largest concern of the kind in the South. It Is thoroughly equipped, having five presses, and all the latest mechanical appliances In the art, the Pest of artists and the most skillful lithog raphers, all under the management of an experienced superintendent. It also has the advantage of being a part of a well equipped printing and binding house, provided with every thing necessary to handle orders promptly, carefully and economically. Corporations, manufacturers, banks and bankers, mer chants and other business men who are about placing orders, are solicited to give this house an opportunity to figure on their work, when orders are of sufficient mag nitude to warrant It, a special agent will be sent to make estimates. J. H, ESTILL. CORNICES. CHAS. A 76 OX, 46 BARNARD 8T. f SAVANNAH, GA., —HAIfUFACTUR** OF— GALVANIZED IRON CORNICES TIN ROOFING IN ALL ITS BRANCHES The only house using machinery In doing work. Estimates for city or country work promptly furnished. Agent for the celebrated Swedish Metallic I’alnt. Agent for Walter's Patent Tin Shingles. CORSETS. PLUMBER. l. a. McCarthy, Successor to Chss. E. Wakefield. PLUMBER, GAS and STEAM FITTER, I laniard street, SAVANNAH, UA. Telephoue 474. WATCHES AND JEWELRY. THE CHEAPEST PLACE TO BUY WEDDING PRESENTS Such as DIAMONDS, FINE STERLING SID* VERWARE, ELEGANT JEWELRY FRENCH CLOCKS, etc., fa to be found at A. L Desbouillons, 21 BULL STREET, the sole agent for the celebrated ROCKFORD RAILROAD WATCHES, and who also makes a specialty of 18-Karat Wedding Kings AND THE FINEST WATCHER Anything you buy from him being warranted as represented. Opera Glasses at Cost. GRAIN AND lIAY. WE' LEAD ON BEST GRADES OF Northern Cabbage, Potatoes, Onions, Apples, Turnips, Cocoanuts, LEMONS, LEMONS And all kinds of FRUITS and PRODUCE in . season. GRAIN AND HAY, Corn, Oats, Ha/, Bran Eyes, Feed Meal, Grits, Meal, Cracked Corn, Peas, Etc. Get our carload prices. 169 BAY ST, W. D. SIMKINS & CO. HANKS, KISSI MM EE Cl TY BAN Kissimmee City, Oraage County, Fla. CAPITAL - - t-VI.OOO rpHANSACT a mg'liar ban king hurt im-s*. Glv, I partlrnuir n ll .■-itl.>n to Florida collection,. Convspoadence solicited. Issue famhangw on New York. Ne ■ i rVaiiH. Savannah and sonville. r’la. lU’Sid im Agents for Ooutts & Cos. ami Mulville, Evans ,i Cos., of l/aidon, England. New York comupoudoul: The ..cabuanl National iiank. 5