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IN A DARK HOUR. (iertnule Hall in the Century. rphose tend *!■ rm> there: When such little things, Such helpless, fragile little things we are— How they pray iiou for us I How they make war For us with death 1 And spread their mother wings About us lull of anxious quiverings. And spying each least peril from afar. With then- own arms, thereto made mighty, bar The way from harms and smile at adder stings. And brave the tigers merciless and wild. In their deep love for ns: anil by and by. When we are men. to strive and stand alone. We clasp our desneruxo. aching heads and moan: Would God my mother had left me to die! Would I had died a sinless little child! MORNING LIBRARY, NO. 47. five old letters. by MISS S. LUCY JOYNER. [Copyrighted, IBS7, by J. H. Estill.] CHAPTER lll.—Continued. June 150. —I have made a mistake! I have been weak and blind! It was only because my life had grown so barren that I deceived nivself into believing that I could be hap pier as Robert’s wife. Now—oh, strange contradiction in our strange humanity!—it seems to me it had one blessed joy then above all others—freedom and a clear con science! This poor room becomes im measurably dearer to me as the time to leave it draws near. I feel as if 1 would gladly live the old life for years to come rather than enter upon the one that spreads out so fair before me. It is a dreary feel ing; a little sadder, I believe, than any other heartache; the feeling that my life has been wasted, that I don’t know what it is. It must be that I do not love him, and that I am doing him a wrong in pretending so. Jeffrey, do you know anything about such things? Would it be kinder, do you think, to tell him the truth? When I make up my mind to do this I feel as if I cannot meet the reproachful sadness of his eyes. July 3. —I might have spared myself the dread' of marrying Robert. He is dead! I write the words quietly, with a strange and bitter tumult in my heart. And so my poor little dream is ended! Does it not seem an awful thing! This morning he left me full of hea Ith and hope; and to-night he is lying over there in his stately home, with his loyal, loving heart forever still! O, iny friend! Omy strong heart! Was it because I valued your love too lightly that God took it from me? His parting words have haunted me all day. He had to take a long drive in the country, and came to tell me that he might not return until to morrow. '•Shall you miss me, Bessie?” he asked. I said “Yes,” but I do not think he was satisfied. He took my face in both his hands. “Are you happy, child!” he asked again. I wish to heaven I had answered him dif ferently! I wish —alas! how fruitlessly! —that I had said something to drive away that look of sorrowful yearning in his eyes. But I did not, for his last words were: “I trust you have not made a mistake.” The very words I had written to you! I think life is full of mistakes! It must be that God lets us blunder, and means that we shall — “Rise oa stepping-stones Of our dea ‘ selves to higher things.” I was restless when he had gone. I re solved that when he returned I would try harder to make him happy, and that I would never grieve him by telling him my fears. As the day wore on he was more and more in my thoughts. All the brave un •tlfish things I knew of him, his gentlest words and lovingest smiles, how they thronged my brain! Did God ever make a finer nature? Had mine grown discordant that it could not harmonize with one so perfectly attuned to all high and noble im pulses ? I picked up a volume of his favorite— “ Charles Lamb.” On the fly leaf were these words written with pencil: “I fancied long "ago that, like ‘the gentle Charles,’ I should lead a life of single blessedness—or curs edness mine would be—as bis must have been, but for its unselfish devotion to his sister, its brave bearing of a lonely bur den—that made it blessed and beautiful be yond all words! But I was wrong in that. My future now looks so fair and perfect that I seem half bewildered with too much joy—and yet there are moments when I doubt its being anything but a beautiful dream” —a few more words had been written and rubbed out. Tears were in my eyes, as I thought, “The ‘beautiful dream’ shall last. I have prom ised. and I wi.l be true. God helping me, I will bear my ‘lonely burden’ to the end!” Early in the afternoon Biddy O’Flannigan came up to my room. Nurse followed close behind her, and my heart tainted within me as 1 saw her raise the corner of her apron to her eyes. "Child,” began Biddy, “let me rest here jist aminnit.” She took out a huge red handkerchief and wiped her face. Then she folded it with nice precision, and looked sideways at it as she laid it on her lap. Then she took a note out of her bosom and eyed that in the same suspicious way. Then she clutched at her red face with both red hands, and I fell to crying, while nurse drew a little nearer and began to feel iny pulse. Frightened as 1 was, I could not help laughing, as I begged them to tell me if anything had hap pened. “Mtav a bit,” Biddy began again, choking down her sobs, and applying the big hand kerchief vigorously. “I must spake to ye agin ye rude that paper. Do you think, honey, as ye could i ver make up yer moind like Moses, or some o’ the blissid Scripter saints, fur to giv’ up yer one yo lam’ should, the blissid Faythor ask it of ye?” “Josie! oil! not that, Biddy!” I gasped. “Not that, indade, my darlint. Misthress Josie is well, an’ shure an’ that should be a cumfit to ye! It’s him—the docthrer — thro wed by that divilish black baste o’ his that I niver could abide the looks on. But doan’t, honey! Don't look like that! Jist lay yer head down here, my lam’, an’ let the tears come. They’ll help you, shure an’ they willl” pod help us when we shed such tears! ” hen some true heart one has grieved and wronged can no longer be moved by aught one can say or do; and one feels that if the dark curtain that hangs like a pall between Jife and the mysteries of the beyond might ne lifted, .nothing could keep back the tenderness one now wastes on the lifeless clay! * * * * * * I will not say lam lonely. Iso truly de "iwe to be lonely; so truly deserve to have lost the friend my way ward heart would never own for its king. 1 he days come ami go, and Edith and I sre working and waiting together. Work *hg that we might live. Waiting because we cannot choose but wait. One has only t" look into Edith’s sad face on which there •pits a look of fixed resolve to see for what she is waiting. Mho is in the full bloom of womanhood, being not more than six years ’ey s-nior. Mr. Temple has asked her to J“m bis regularly organised band of “sis -1,1 as she already does the work of one among the poor and rich of Ids parish. But "he says she is not fit for that; that she nmst work more humbly. Hhc tells me that bar one object and hope in life is to a'one for the mistakes of the* past. I watch her sometimes bowling all her line |X>wer* ?* mind and person to this one purjwse. I allow that the work she doe* is not easy for Edith. Hho is proud and reticent, awl must •■brink from contact with coarser nature; 1 lliii-d awl sennit! ve, and the sin and mis ery sin’ strives to lamen must boa dally slinelt n, her, i know that she does not ilka to sew, and i J’ et sews busily on endless ugly little gar- I ln ents, while Ido what I like best in the evening. 1 i am not greatly changed. If I have j learned a tew of life’s saddest lessons, they | have not yet taught me the lofty self-for j getfulness that makes Edith’s life so beauti | nil in my eyes. Perhaps lam a little wiser : ami graver. Ido not know. I love life, j Md cling tq it; love my work, my books, the j room that is yet hallowed by my' darling’s presence. Love, with a perverse intensity, this green and gladsome earth, with its daily unfolding treasures in nature and art. In the first cruel loss of ray life I wanted to die. \\ hen the hand of God smites us heavily in our first youth, that is ever the cry of the bruised and bleeding heart. No later draught of sorrow can be quite so bit ter and unendurable.” . The clock on the mantle points to 12 as I finish this letter. I walk to the window and look out on the moon-bathed garden. Just beyond the river winds a shining sil ver girdle between the masses of dark foli age that form the grand, trailing robe of the star-crowned night. • Inly glad and grateful thoughts are in my heart. Memories of the past have flit ted from me. lam thinking of my home and of my wife! I have only one more letter, and before I read that a fancy comes to me. I will fill out the story in my own poor way, the sweet story of my love. In doing so I must go back to a period in my life that I never think of but with bitter pain. Soothed to the soul by the exquisitely still and solemn sweetness of the scene before me, I turn from the window, and drawing a chair to my writing-desk, take up pen and pa per. CHAPTER IV. Thirty years ago there stood in the most dismal part of Veniceaji old stone building. It w as tall, and grim-looking, and blackened by age and damp. Its upper balcony’, to which you ascended by steps irregularly winding from the ground at the water’s edge, jutted out over the street, giving it a gloomy and threatening aspect, like some hideous, black monster brooding over the dark lagoon. In this house the greater part of my childhood was passed. My lather, James Harwood, was a student and a lover of art, though himself uo artist. He was a writer of more than ordinary ability, and a man of profound and varied learn ing, but of peculiar temper and proud, un bending will. My mother was a Venetian She had the rich Italian beauty and the warm, loving nature of the South. She loved my father fervently. I do not re member ever to have heard her say so, or to have seen her show her love to him. It w r as when she sat alone in her lofty cham ber, in the gloomy house, while he wrote in his study; when she floated down the shad ow’y streets, w’ith her two children by her side, while he paced the moonlit piazza with his head in the clouds; when she came to our bedside at night, and, kneeling with us, prayed for our father—-and never without tears—while he was out dining with his triends; when she listened patiently to im patient words, with a look of dumb pain in her soft eyes. At such times my child -1 heart told me that she loved him—and that she was unhappy’. I was afraid of my father and I thought she was* I was proud of him, too, but I seldom spoke in his pres ence. There was but one of us who knew tho key to his affections; the only being to whom he was loving and gentle—my mother’s namesake, our Olive. I remem ber the fragile lily-face, with its sad gray eyes, and abundant dark hair. She fell down the dark steps into the water one day, and the lifeless form was laid on our own little bed, nevermore to flit through the si lent rooms! Then my father forgot his books. His grief was terrible, but he put us away from him and bore it alone. I have often wondefed who suffered more; he, in his proud isolation, scorning sympa thy’, or she, my patient mother, yearning for it with all the strength of her stricken heart, yet knowing she would never receive it from him. Mine was a strange and lonely life for a child, and yet a kind of charmed life too, I was always delicate, and often could not leave the house for weeks. On bright days when the pain was very bad they would draw my couch to the window of my mother’s room that looked out on the sea rolling at the foot of the stone staii-s: on the grand old palace lifting its proud head in the distance against the blue sky; on the tall shins resting on the bosom of the shining Adriatic; on glittering church spires pointing heavenward. I could sec the sunlight dancing on the waves, could hear the ripple of the water as the littlo boats glided past the window, and fragments of boat-songs, and shouts of gay laughter floated up to my ears. Within the room were books and pictures and play things. At my side was my sweet mother. But a shadow hung over the dark old dwelling. Nothing could make it cheerful, in my eyes. Like a wild bird that beats its head against the bare of its gilded cage, I fretted and pined for the free air, and water and sunshine! But there were glorious days when the whole wonderful city w'as my own. When we skimmed over the sparkling watei-s, past gardens that looked like fairy-land, past shrines and terraces, and bridges and churches, and picturesque women, and lazy men asleep on marble steps in the sunshine, with the water lapping their feet. And the pictures in the churches! How wonderful they seemed in my childish eyes I Though I did uot always like the ones my mother said were the best. She was the patient, unwearying companion of all my pleasure. She would never let me go out alone after Olive died. For I missed my sister, and often sobben myself to sleep in my mother’s arms; and nestled closer as 1 listened to the plash of the water below; the ugly, black water that had swallowed our darling. It always made me shudder at night. It was one of my fancies that Olive’s voice spoke to us in its lonely mur mur. I was not a loveable child. My mother and the servants gratified my every’ whim, and spoiled ine. I was willful and passionate, but not unloving, except to my rather. His indifference stung my sensitive pride. 1 requited his coldness with cold ness. I heard him say one day to his friend for whom I was named: “The boy has no feeling. He has mind and will. "By heaven! and temper too; but he lias no love for any one except his mother, and that is entirely selfish. He is totally unlike ray lovely Olive.” Could he have seen “the boy” a half hour later, sitting in an old church where there was a picture of St. Peter, whose strong, rugged features looked like the father he loved in spite of his harshness! Could he have seen the sad little figure crouched be fore the high altar and shaken with sobs! the young heart swelling with such cruel pain as childhood ought nevor to know! We left Venice after Olive died, and traveled for two years. One summer we spent in Switzerland. But my father was strangely restless away from the place he loved to call home. 1 afterward learned tho secret of its terrible fascination for him. He made frequent lonely visits far up into the mountains, and my mother and 1 were left to ourselves. That summer in the little Swiss village is the happiest recol lection of my early childhood. The healthy, sun-browned mountain children came to play with me, and brought me flowers and fruit. They must have pitied me very much. I climbed the mountans with them to the music of the roaring waterfalls, and drank such bewildering draughts of tho pure, sweet air that I grew strong and well. It made my mother very ta -Tou are growing so strong, Jeffrey, my darling, and so handsome that your father will not know you when ho comes," she said t<* me once. • ■ Why do vou sjieak to me of him f” I said, fretfully. “He won’t care! You know he never can* about me.” “I am ran) he does. You do not under stand your father. He has a kind heart, but”—lt broke off and looked steadily away from me, but 1 saw the two tears that fell on her hands. j low could she justify K* harshness to til* only son? I threw iuv aim* around her THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1887. neck, and we both cried. After that day we did not speak of him. When we returned home she ltegan to droop. I did not understand for a long time. My lather left his books sometimes and staid with her. He was more gentle in his manner toward her, but tew words passed between them. One day he said: “Olive, I want your forgiveness. It is too late now to make you happy, if I ever could. But >’ou have been a true wife, and I have always loved you. 1 cannot say more.” She seemed content with that. She gave him a look of unutterable love, and the smile that came into her face never left it. One day she called me to her, and with in finite tenderness and pity in her voice told me she was dying. Ah. me! I saw it then! Wild with grief, I clung to her breast, and said she should ni t leave me! 1 would not let her go! She was mine, and God did not need her, and He had no right to t ike her. I remember how beautiful she was in death, how sweet and restful she looked — yet I shrank away from her, frightened at the icy lips I tried to kiss. I think 1 must have died that night, hidden down in the bed-clothes, shudderiug in the darkness and loneliness if my father had not come up to me. He did not speak to me, but he held my hand, and did not scold me for crying. lii my childish misery I vowed that 1 never would try again to love the God that took my mother away. I had her intense na ture and his fierce pride. She had taught me the love, he the bitterness! My father’s cousin and nearest relative was Harold Harwood, of Harwood Place. Soon after my mother’s death he wrote to my father and asked him to bring me to visit my’ cousins. The idea seem to please him, aiid he took me there. He staid a nibnth, and when he started on his travels again I begged him to leave me. He was not what he had been. Ho seemed broken and sad. I longed to know if his heart ached for my mother as mine did, but 1 would not ask him. He left me with the promise that he would return at the end of the year and take mo back to Venice. I was 12 years old. My cousins were girls of 8 and 6 y’ears. Their bright wavs were like a revelation to me—a revelation of what childhood con tains of innocent mirth and free, untroubled happiness. How different from mine! They had no mother, but their brother had so tenderly taken care of them that they scarcely missed her. They almost wor shiped him, and were perfectly frank and free in their manner to uim. The black nurse, at the head of the well trained servants, kept them and the house in perfect order. She was the most capable black I ever saw. Tall and stately in ap pearance,scrupulously neat in her dress,with a kind of motherliness in the homely’ face (with its wide mouth and great, shining eyes) that made it good to look at. I had been an exile from the home of my’ fathers from my birth, and knew nothing of the customs of the South. 1 used to wonder very much when I saw my’ cousins climb into her lap and cover her tawny cheeks with kisses. At first I was proud and shy, but I soon felt that she gave me sy'mpathy, and my heart opened. I shall always remember the astonished look in Bessie’s eyes when I told her one day that I did not love God because He was cruel and took my mother where I could never see her. “And where is she?” she asked me. “In Paradise,” I said. “And isn’t God there, too?” “I suppose so,” I answered, doggedly. “Then X think you ought to love Him,” she said, “for didn't He take her there, as He did our mother, beause He loved ner, and wanted her tj be ever so happy i And you He wants to stay here with us, and let us love you and have lots of fun, and after awhile when you get tired, why He’ll let you go where she is if you’ll "be a good boy!” “But I didn’t know you then, and I had nobody else but mamma, ami you don’t know what an ugly old house it was, and how cold she was!—and I loved her so. ” Here I broke down, and she put her arms around my neck and kissed and comforted me. That was the first lesson she gave me. My father came for me at the appointed t time. YVe went back to the dark old house ’upon the waters that he loved. He said he Was tired, and could rest in no other place. O, the horror of going back to that unnatural, sorrow-haunted home! The sound of my own footsteps, as they echoed tLrough the gloomy corridors and great, desolate rooms, made me start with fear. My father was restless. Some terrible grief seemed to be gnawing at bis heart. \Y as it remorse? As each day he looked more weary and spirit-broken, a great pity for him sprang up in my heart. I longed to know his secret, but I dared uot ask. Again and again I resolved that with my own hands 1 would break down the barrier that divided us, that I would make him love me before it was too late. For with the quick intuition that sorrow gives a child, I felt that he would not be with me long. Yet it was hard to be loving to him wlio seldom gave me a gentle word. One night I had a frightful dream. A shadowy figure with a white, awful face, Stood beside iny bed. It pointed with its long, skinny fingers to the door, and in a hollow voice it cried: “Your father is a devil!” Then its face grew suddenly round and red, and the figure had my mother’s shape, and it rushed out of the window, and 1 heard it laugh wildly as it fell into the water and shrieked aloud: “Heis a devil! a devil!” I awoke with a stifled scream, cold drops standing on my forehead, and lay perfectly still, crouched among the pillows, and trembling in every limb. YVhen tue first horror gave place to restlessness I got up and dressed and crept to the window. It was a dark night. Only a few pale stars were out. There was a low moan upon the sea, and the air was heavy and brooding. The dark boats, gliding in and out over tho black water, looked weird and unearthly. A ghostly horror seemed to shroud tiie heavens and the earth, and the voices of the dead spoke to me in the sobbing of the waves. But listen! Was that a cry borne out upon the air by the rising wind? It sounded like the wail of a lost soul! I went out into the gallery and listened. The house must surely be haunted, 1 thought. I stood quite still in the dark ness, my teeth chattering as if an ague-fit had seized me. A deep groan from my father’s study! I advanced a few steps and listened again. Only the dull sound of his footsteps echoing through the lonely house as he walked up and down, up and down. I crept close to his door. Yv as my father mad ? I beard strange, wild noises and the words: “Will it never leave me? Great God! Must it haunt mv brair. forever? Is the night full of evil spirits conus to mock me, and tempt me Us my doom?" I knocked softly at the door. No an swer. The walking up and down did not cease. I knocked louder. “Who, in heaven’s name, is that? Who wants me at this hour ?” “It is I, father; let me come in, please!” “Go back to bed!” he called out, an grily. I turned away as a crash of thimder pealed through the old house and shook it to its foundation. My father’s door opened. “What do you want?” he asked, sternly. “I cannot sleep. I wanted to ask you to let me stay with you,” I answered. I looked straight into his eyes, my new born resolution making me brave. “Are you afraid of the thunder? I never thought a sou of mine would be a cow ard. “1 am not a coward,” I answered, “or I should not be here. Let me come in, father! I must speak to you.” He looked at me in amazement, but mo tamed me to follow as he went back into the room. He threw biinseif into a chair, and 1 stood before him. “Father.” I said, “do not lie angry. I want to tell vou something, I—" “ Weil! (to on,” a* 1 paused. “I—l love you, father!" He threw Isvk Ills head and laughed. “Awl you wake iu up in the dead of mg at to tell in* tin*—you! who have never disguised that A’ou hated me. You must have been terribly frightened by the storm. Even your mother never said that much to me!” “I did not wake you. Itieard you walk ing, and then I heard you groan, and I thought you might be in pain, and I—1” kneeiiug’down before hint I hud my head on his knees—“O, father! Father! I have al ways loved you, but I was so afraid of you. but. I guess it was my fault too! I ought to have thought more of you when mamma died. I thought you didn’t care much, but now I know you did. I know you are grieving for her evorv day. O, please let me love you! O, don't, send me away I was sobbing with all the passion of my nature. He lifted my head from his knees, but not ungently, and walked to the win dow. Now thnt the ice was broken 1 poured out all the grief t hat had been smouldering in my heart through the sad years of my lonely life. 1 begged him to forgive me. I begged him to love me. YY'hen I had finished and lay back exhausted in his chair he turned his head a little. “Did you ever telTyour mother this?" “Never. Sho knew I felt your—your—'" “My cruelty! Go on. ” “But I never talked to her about it.” “And what did she tell you of me?” “Nothing that was not good. She said sometimes that she knew you loved me, but you did not know how to show it. Then sho would always cry.” Ho put his baud up before his eyes, and a fierce struggle seamed to be going on with in him. 1 tnought it was grief for her sor row. and I asked: “Did you thon love her so much, father?” He darted an angry glance at me, and a dark flush came into his face. “How dare you ask me such a question? Is it anything to you:” “Yes, sir,” 1 answered, steadily. “It is much to me. She was my mother, the only being in the world who loved me, and 1 can't help wanting to know why she was never happy. YVon’t you tell me, father?” He came over to tho table and stood where the light shone full on his face. It was ghastly, and drawn as if with pain. He pointed to the dainty bronze clock. As 1 looked toward it my eyes Wandered around the room with its elegant books, its choice pictures and rare bronzes—its velvet carpet and luxurious chairs and solas. I could not help thinking how pitiful our two sad laces must, look amid all this elegance and b.'aity! “It is 3 o’clock,” he said. “Have you been awake all night?” “No, sir. I had a bad dream that awakened me about an hour before I came to you.” “What was the dream?” I hesitated. “Tell me,” he commanded, and I told him. He trod to laugh, but as I looked at him his knees began to shake, and he sat down on a chair and let his head drop on the ta ble. “You can go,” he said, presently. I arose and stood by his side. “Then you send me away from you with out—” He pointed to the door, and as I obeyed the old bitter feeling came back. “Stay a moment. Jeffrey, come here!” I went back. “You said just now that you wanted my love. lam not quite certain that you do. Ha! ha! It is loug since any one spoke to me of love, boy. I have that to toll you that will make you change your mind. Come here to-morrow after the breakfast hour, and I will tell you all you want to know of your father, and more. YY r e will wait until that is over before we talk of love. ” “But I will love you in spite of what you tell me.” “It is a black secret; you cannot!” “May 1 kiss you good-night, father?” “Not to-night. Not to-night,” he said, his features working strangely. "YVait until you hear what I am. Now go to bed.” He called to me again as I reached the door. “Are you afraid to go alone?” “No, sir,’ I said, and I went sorrowfully’ back to bed. I soon fell asleep, and slept soundly until morning. But I knew my father did not clbfse his eyes all night. 1 dreaded tho in terview', yet I felt a kind of pride in the thought that he would take me into his con fidence. After that, I thought, we should understand each other. He did not come to breakfast, but sent word he was ill. Ho was lying down, and looking very wan and tired wheu I went in after my hurried breakfast. “Sit down over there,” he said, pointing to a chair on the opposite side of the room, “and let us have it over.” He looked so stem that I did not inter rupt him, though I felt sure that he was too weak to talk much. “I shall toll wlmt I have to tell in as few words as possible, ns I haven’t much breath; or tune either, I fancy,” he began. “You had better make up your mind to be shocked, Jeffrey. I think you are a pure hearted boy, and know nothing of the dark passions that have made your father what lie is. I was like you once, but tliut was long ago. I think my nature was first warped and twisted into such unlovely shapes by tny stepmother. !She first taught me to suspect and distrust my fellow-creat ures. But I will pass over that. I was not a bad man, Jeffrey, when I first loved your mother, and she might have made me any thing she cared to, but for the dark destiny that always pursued me. I loved her, boy —loved her! do you hear it? loved her when I was most harsh, lovod her when she lay dying in that room yonder! I would have given the last drop of my blood to have saved her, though I kuew I was breaking her heart! You did not know, you two, when you wept together in that room that your grief was bliss to the mad anguish, the torture of my soul, as I saw her suffer nt my hands and knew a dark mystery divided us forever! I would have given worlds to have thrown myself at her feet and confessed it, but I could not en dure to see her shrink fro* me in horror. No; better have the cold, proud silence be tween us. Your mother had a cousin, Jef frey, who loved her and wan Us 1 to marry her. He never told his love until after she promised to marry me. She never loved him; that is, not as she did me. I know that now—knew it long ngo, but would not say so. But they had been warm friends, and she trusted him very much.” He stopped a moment, nnd looked across me at a picture of my mother on tho wall— a laughing, girlish face that I scarcely knew for my sad-eyed mother. “I am this much changed,” he said, hoarsely. “I wished sho had loved him and married him before she ever knew me! I wish this for her sake, bitterly as I hated him! He was my equal in all things save pride an id wickedness—of unsullied name and sprung from a proud old family. Your mother’s. I never knew him until, after iny marriage, 1 came here. He was often nt the house. I will not go into particular*. I, in mad my jealousy, believed he loved my wife, and said cruel, taunting words to her in his presence. Hhc resented them. Bho said i hail wronged him os much us 1 hail in sulted and offended her. Bhe demanded an apology for herself and for him. Enraged that she should take his part., 1 ordered him from my presence and from the house. If she had lieen less than the angel she was, she would have fled my presence too after tho words I hail said. She would have boon right to have left me. But she only pleaded with me to be more just to her cousin. YVhen sho spoke of his high honor, hi* gen tle, manly character, his chivalrous regard for all woiunnkind, some demon whispered to me that she loved hhn hotter than she know. I never doubted her honor. Thank Ood, I was not base enough for that! —and then 1 hated him! The demon haunted me. The man came to the house one day when site was out. He was a brave man, or he would not have conic, knowing iny fierce toinjier. He asked mo to lie more forbear ing to hi* cousin. He had come, he said, lie tore leaving the city to beg me to rruet In her, and to lift the heavy burden that was dragging her down. The demon rone up la iny 111-art ft uuwMenod me, and—l nmr (iuivi hint re i Ho sprang up as ho siiid this, anil fixed his wild eyes on mine. A moment of sicken ing, horrible despair, and, with aery, I fell over on the floor. 1 was not unconscious, but paralyzed with horror, and l could not speak. I knew that he lifted me and laid me on a sofa, and bathed my face and hands. How I shrank from his touch! A murderer t 0, God! Why did 1 not let him keep his guilty secret? Better far the old agony than this! “Jeffrey!" his voice, unlike 1 had ever heard it, full of love, and remorse, and en treaty made me weep. But I put, my hands before mv eyes that I might uot see his face—a murderer's face! —bending over me. He knelt, down and hid his face on my breast. I tried to shake him from me, but ho took my hands and held them. “I knew it. I knew you would loathe me. Great heavens! Is this retribution? that, at the moment I learn that I love my son, my only son, I see him shudder and cower away from me! I deserve it! But let me tell you how it was. 1 did not strike him dead before me. It, would have been kinder. I took a more cruel revenge. I rushed out and said them was a madman in the house. An officer came in and said he would take him to prison. The victim re sisted, and shouted aloud, but was over powered, 1 went with them to the prison. But even my heart relented when I saw the horrible, dark, slimy dungeon where no hu man being could live a week. 1 told t lie officer that I would And a more comfortable place of confinement, as ho was my friend, and they believed me. The room in which lie dragged out live miserable years was as roomy and comfortable as any ffi the house, but dotachod from the others. You saw me there yesterday. I cannot keep away from it. I sit there for hours and try to wonder what his thoughts were—if he cursed me in his heart in that slow agony of torture! He never did with his li|>s. Ho was mad, sure enough, when he had been there a year. He saw no one but me. I took him (lis food, which was often untasted for days, and I kept, my secret. You understand that, by slow degrees, 1 killed him. 1 would have released him after his mind was gone, but remorse had liegim its work, and I dared not consign him to the miserable prison. 1 had destroyed his ren son, and i was not quite vile enough to finish the black work 1 was too cowardly to acknowledge. His mother, who was his only near relative, died a short time after his imprisonment, so there was no account to give to his family. Your mother heard that he had lost his mind, and had been con veyed from the cit v by iiis friends to es cape the prison. He died in that, room! It was his ghost you saw, and no dream! I took bis Yxxiy myself in the dead of night to that floating graveyard over there.” His voice hud sunk to a hoarse whisper. There was an awful pause. He still knelt by my sofa. As if the memory of that fearful night was too much for him, he crouched down slmdderingly, and a deep groan burst from him. Could this lie my proud father? The man who maintained such rigid self-control at. all times. The man who was yet courted and flattered in the literary circles of Venice; the polished, brilliant man of the world, here—on his knees at, my feet — bo well down with remorse and shame! How many things that I had never un derstood seemed plain to me in the light of his awful disclosure! How far more than I ever dreamed must my mother have suf fered ! I could understand now why, for so many years, he never left Venice. What marvelous powers of endurance he pos sessed to have kept up his pride and strength with that dark deed on his soul! But, I could not s|)eak to him. I felt a wild desire to rush from the sin-shadowed house; to run away and hide myself where this terrible black shame and misery might never reach me! His next words made me forget myself in pity for him. “This lonely place—this miserable house have a wild attraction for me. I could no more resist the impulse that brought roe back here whoa I hod male up my mind to die in my native land than I can explain the strange desire It, was on me wherever I went. It can 1* but one thing—the linger of destiny pointing me to the doom I have dreaded for years—to die by my own hands' I was very near it last night when you came, ana you saved me from myself!” A deep shuddering sigh broke from him, while a wild look of terror shot into his face. I think my mother's great love for him must have revived in the heart of her child at this moment. The horror and loathing were all swept from me in a great, rush of pity and love. On my knees by his side I gathered the sunken head in my arms. I cried over him, and whispered broken words of love. I was alarmed at the storm of grief that my tenderness aroused, the pent-up agony of years of lonely remorse and pride bursting from his soul at the first softening touch of love! Great sobs shook him from head to foot. When a proud man once humbles himself, the task of gaining his love and confidence is comparatively easy. I never knew what I said to iny father, but I am sure a strength not my own was lent me, for he soon grew quiet. The shock bad been too much for me. Weeks of fever and delirium followed,during which time I only knew that an anxious face watched me with tenderness, and when I was better the same face looked calmer than I had ever seen it. When I recovered I tried to win him from his purpose of spending his remaining days in Veniee. 1 knew that, the horrible teini>- tntion to self-destruction would be so strong in no other place. But he was firm. He said he had no right, to be gathered to hie fathers in the land of his birth, since he had brought dishonor on the old name. He begged that there should be no funeral when he should die. He particularly en joined that an old servant should take his body late at night, in a certain black boat (I kiiew why he said that one) and lower it into the water. He did not livelong. He loved the pomp and ceremony of the Church of Rome, and had its offices in his dying moments. I think he made deep and hitter atonement. May Christ have mercy on his soul! I never have heard the solemn Miserere since they chanted it around his dying bed that the scene has not come back to me, with a pitiful yearning for the lonely boy who sat a |>art and wept, and had no share in the mournful rites, fjis father had told his secret and his reason for wishing no fu neral to the priest, so they let me have the body. [TO BE CONTINUED.] The Cause of the Siege of Troy, • From the Lomlon baity News. An old story, such as has often disturbed the pears- of the world, comes from Amatia, in Asia Minor. The inhabitants of this lo cality are composed of a mixture of Mussul man Circassians and Armenian Christians. A friend of the Governor, who was a Mus Bulinan, foil desperately in love with u beautiful Armenian girl, and persuaded that official to lend his assistance to carry her olf, in order tlmt she might lie converted to the religion of Islam and married to her fervent but unscrupulous admirer. The Governor consented. The girl was borne off by force, and all was going as merrily as a marriage bell, when the Armenian popu lation, objecting to the treatment that one of their body was receiving, rose in revolt and attempted to rescue the girl. This they succeeded in doing, but not before much blood hail been shod. Is Consumption Incurable? Read the following: Mr. C. H. Morris, Newark, Ark., says: “Was down with Abscess of Lungs and friends and physicians pronounced me an Incurable Consumptive, Began taking Dr. King’s New Discovery for Consumption, am now on my third bottle and aide to oversee the work on my farm. It Is the finest medicine ever made ' .frame Middleware Decatur, ()., says: "Hail it not tiecn for Dr. King’s New Dim •o very for Consumption I would I lave died of Lung Troubles. Was given up by doctors Am now in beet of health. 'I ry it Htnuplw bottles free at lifppmun Bros' drug store. DRY GOODS. , EC K S T E IN’S! A BOLD STATEMENT. Every one of the prices given below were 10, 15 and in some instances 35 per cent lower than the same goods can be bought in any other house. DRESS GOODS. M inch All Wool LADIES' CLOTH, in the new shades, 65c. TRICOTS. M All Wool, new color, TRICOT CLOTHS, FLANNELS. White, Rod and Blue All Wool FLANNELS, 27 inches wide, 36c.; worth 50c. CANTON FLANNEL. A few hales of Bleached aud Unbleached at 10c.; worth 12y$c. a yard. SHEETINGS. 10 4 Unbleached, 19c.; 10-4 Bleached, 19c.; regular 35c. goods. DOYLIES. 500 dozen Checked White Damask, Colored Border aud Turkey Red at sc. each. TICKS. A Mattress Tick, 6J4c.; a Feather Tick, 12p£c. Tlx© Biggest; Bargain of _A.II. 500 dozen GENTS' PURE LINEN HANDKERCHIEFS, Hemmed and Laundried, ready for use, at 16 ECKSTEI N’S. Jerseys, Jerseys, Jerseys! An Entire New Line Just Opened at GUT MAN’S, 141 BROUGHTON STREET. LADIES’ PLAIN BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS at *l. LADIES’ BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS. Fancy Front, at *1 .50. LADIES’ BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS, Plain Front, at f2. LADIES’ BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS, Fancy Pleated Front, at $2 50. Also a full line of BRAIDED JERSEYS at #3 .50 and upwards, and An Entire New Line of Children's Jerseys. CHILDREN’S BLACK and SOLID COLORED HOSE, full regular made, 5 to 8V) 35c. a pair. ' 25 dozen LADIES’ BALBRIGGAN HOSE, full regular made, only 15c. a pair. IT. G U T M A IV . TRUNKS AND SHOES. Low Quarter Shoes at Cost In order to make room for our Large Fall Stock, which will soon be coming in, we have concluded to make a rushing sale of the balance of our stock of GENTS’ FINE LOW QUARTER SHOES. We have sold our stock of these goods down closer this . eason than we have for years past, and being determined not to carry any over to next year, we offer to close them out AT MANUFACTURERS’ COST. * Remember the old saying, “the early bird catches the worm,” so don’t wait until the best lots are gone. JOS. ROSENHEIM & CO., 185 BROUGHTON STREET. IKON WORKS. KEHOE’S IRON WORKS; Broughton Street, from Reynolds to Randolph Streets, - - G-eorgia. CASTING- OF ALL KINDS AT LOWEST POSSIBLE PRICES. THE RAPIDLY INCREASING DEMAND FOR OUR SUGAR MILLS AND PANS TJ AS induced us to manufneture them on a more extensive scale than ■V XX ever. To that end no pains or expense has been spared to maintain ■■ their HIGH HTANARD OF EXCELLENCE. ■ These Mills am of the BEST MATERIAL AND WORKMANSHIP, with heavy WROUGHT IRON* SHAFTS (made long to prevent danger to the B ■ operatori. and rollers of the best charcoal pig iron, all turned up true. ■ B Thi-v are heavy, strong and durable, run light and even, and are guarao teed capable of grinding the heaviest fully matured All our Mills are fully wnrrant-d for one year fijfo: aFpffrf yBHbKkH '*' ;UIS '"-mg casl wilh the bottoms down, ■■■KBBIHH po.-S'-SS MMOolllTies-. ‘I irabdl! V and 11 Illl'i .mill V of thfcknraw FARSUTERIOR TO THOSE MADE IN Having unsurpassed facilities, WE GUARANTEE OUR PRICES TO BE AS LOW AS ANY OFFERED. A Large Stock Always on Hand for Prompt Delivery. Win. Kehoe & Cos. N. B.—The name “ KEHOE’S IKON WORKS.’ is caat on all our Mills and Pans. SASH, DOORS, BLINDS, ETC. BAVANNA-U, GA., MANUFACTURERS OF AND DEAIERS IN Mi, Doors, ills, Daniels, Pew Ends, And Interior Finish of all kinds, Mouldings Balusters, Newel Posts. Estimates, Price lists. Mould ing Hooks, ami any Information in om line ruriushed uu application Cypress, Voiiotv Plm. Oak; Ash and Walnut LUMBER un hand aud is any quantity, fuiwshe * promptly VAI4: ROYAL MANUFACTURING COMPANY, Savamiah, DRESS GOODS, 27-ineh Wool Filling, Plain, Colored and Fancy styles, 15c. SILKS. A Big Drive in BLACK GROS GRAIN at $1 and Si 25. BLANKETS. Rich Fancy Colored and 10 4 WHITE WOOL BLANKETS at S4 75; worth $7. TABLE LINEN. 25 pieces Bleached and Unbleached Damask, new patterns, 45c.; worth Usc. TOWELS. 2,000 Pure Linen, large size, TOWELS at 15c.; won h 26c. SPREADS. 11-4 WHITE SPREADS, very handsome pat. terns, heavy quality, at 75c. LACE CURTAINS. Closing out 125 pieces from $1 a window up. 5