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THE OLD PARSON’S STORY. From the Christian at Work. They say that I am old anti forgetful, My style i> ez slow ti a snail. My doctrines are all out o' fashion. My muni is beginnin' to fail; Tney want a more flowery preacher, More full o' forgiveness an' love. To talk to 'em les. about brimstone An'"moreo' the mansions above. For fifty long years I've l ean preachin', I've studied my old Bible well, X alwus hev felt it my duty To show them t.be horr rs of hell. Perhaps I've been wrong ia my notions, I've followed the Scriptures, 1 know, An' never hev knowingly broken The vows that 1 tool; long ago. I’ve seen many trials ami changes; I've fit a good light against wrong, The gals have grown up t<s be v.iaunin, The boys hev got manly and strong. The honest old deacons hev vanished, Their pure lives hev come to a close: They sleep in the sm at old church-yard. Where soon I shall lie in repose. My flock has been alwus complainin.' The church wuz not rightly arranged, They voted to hev a high steeple; The gallery bed to be changed. They built up a fanciful vestry. They bought the best organ in town; They chopped the eld pews into kindiin's, An' tumbled the tall pulpit down. And now. to my pain an’ my sorrel'. They say “the old parson must go,” I know I am childish and feeble, My steps are unstiddy and slow; They want a more spirited speaker, One with new ideas in his head, To dance round the platform an’ holler An’ wake up the souls that are dead. I’ll try to believe that what happens Will alwus come out for the best, They tell me my labor is ended, Tis time I wuz taking a rest. I've leotle o’ comfort or riches, (I'm sartin my conscience is clear,! An’ when in the church yard I'm sleepin,’ Perhaps they may wisu I was here. MORNING NEWS LIBRARY, NO. ‘i~. FIVE OLD ~ LETTERS. BY MISS S. LUCY JOYNER. [ Copyrighted , 1887, by J. H. Bstill.] CHAPTER V. I was but 14 when I went back to Har wood Place, but I seemed to myself years older. My cousin Harold was my guar dian. My father’s lauds adjoined his. He was a flue, handsome man, quiet and digni fied in manner, but warm and tender in his affections. Three years after mv return he was mar ried. People rather wondered at his choice. Bhe was a girl of plain family and an or phan, but of rare beauty, of a rather un usual style. She was rarely gifted, too, be ing a fine musician and an artist of some reputation. She taught music in the family of one of his friends. He met her there oc casionally, and she interested him in spite of the proud indifference with which she met his efforts to gain her confidence. Per haps he loved her first because she was the only woman he knew who did not try to please him. He could see how haughty she was, yet I am sure he thought she would soft 'll in the genial atmosphere of his home. She was a person of decided character, but under her cold exterior she hid oue weak point. She was ashamed of her family, and jealous of any allusion to it. I was too young to know much ot such things, but I knew a kind of shadow fell over the happy household after she came. When I look back—as middle-aged per sons will look back—on the years spent at Harwood Place, they seem to have swept by me like a dream. They seem, of course, to have been one long day of sunshine and gladness. Human nature has a wonderful faculty of glorifying the past. In the haze of distance the joys loom up; and the lit tle every-day worries, the cross words we said, the wrongs we felt most keenly then are quite swept away by the loving hand of memory. How can it be otherwise, when the sharpest agony of that far-away time comes back to us with nothing deeper than a tender half-pleasant sadness ! The free and joyous life I led soon changed, the pale, sad-faced child I must have been into a ro bust and active lad, excelling and delight ing in all athletic sports. I grew as strong and vigorous as one of the young oaks on whose limbs I performed such l'eats as no gymnast might surpass. Or at least, so thought my cousins. I bad my own horse, black as the imp of darkness, and sur named Satan by the girls. As I never knew his Christian name, he bore that un-Chris tiau and suggestive appellation. And right well it became him! To soe him pranciri ft rid curveting; arching his proud nock and dilating his nostrils, and making the dust fly beneath his slender legs was a sight. Vet it needed but a touch of a white hand on his neck, or sometimes a caressing pat to make a lamb of him. In that he was not unlike liis master. Mad and merry were the races we had. “ Bessie on her lithesome Nell, as white as the sea-foam and as swift footed and full of grace as Satan, though not so wicked. We had a boat of our own also —the river ran just beyond the garden wall—and many an afternoon was spent upon the water, while gay young voices made the echoes chase each other far adown the banks. How a man loves to dwell on such bright little remembrances after he has loft his youth behind him! When one has begun to des;iid ever so little the height to which his youthful aspirations pointed up which he has climbed through toilsome years, the recollection of what was huppy in his child hood rings through his heart like beautiful uiusie. Sad indeed if harshness or mistrust have made the song full of jarring chords. At the age of 20, having studied under my cousin Harold’s direction, anti having grad uated creditably, I decided on the law as my profession, and went to Germany for a finish ing course of study. I dreaded the parting with tny cousins, not dreaming that on my return I should find such changes! Not dreaming that I should never more clasp bonds with the no ble man to whom I owed so much. If my cousin Bessie had not taught me lietfer, I might have lingered on at Harwood Place. I might have yielded to temptation that argued with my reason after this fashion: “hve'i though lie strongly advises it, there is no need of my going. My education, as it is, is above the average. After all I am niy own muster. I have plenty of money. I dread those years of exile, and —and —I am afraid to leave Bessie!’’ But through her inlluence, and his visions of a nobler manhood, a broader sphere of usefulness rose liefore me. It was my plain duty to make use of the unusual advantages which 1 possessed. Hhe had said to me when I read “Enid” to her one summer's day,‘that was itself an idyl, that she understood how Enid could not do content that the man she loved should give up uinbition for love of her. Hhe should hate a man so weak. I re member her words when I took my resolu tion. I doubt if there were ever liefore two such fresh, bl ight, enjoyable girls us my cousins. They had grown up my com|>aii ions in most of my out door sports, as well •* in ihe gentler pleasure of the fireside. I had pronounced thorn ‘‘every bit as good a* boys’’ ill the ilajs whim, so to sjiealc. we hail been boys together. When I grew UP my xs'ret conviction was tliut they were hotter than lsiys. V cry much better. And that tio boy nail ever before is-ell bl sued with such playmates. Joule, then ajs sleet witch of morry-tnwrted siirightliieiu, had brown, expressive eyes, ami auburn hair of (as’ii har richness, perfectly regular features, a'ui a complexion of an unusual creamy olilumna, Them was no (law hi the fresh lair young creature froth tba crown of lier bead to the sole of Ist dainty foot And ‘‘••no, to ojmak of, in the sunny, joy loving u “d joy -g, img nature Him was ijrrfe- tin her ‘ inter's *> *, In mine secoml only to her. I loved my cousin Bessie. Let me write it again. I loved her! I wish I could de serice her, but I can never make you under stand “the charm of her presence.” She was not so beautiful as her sister. So they i said. Yet shs was a great favorite. She was charmingly original. She never said things you expected her to say, and often startled you with remarks that sounded almost wicked: “And jet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer.” Her eyes were dark-blue and most beauti ful under long, brown lashes; and her hair, when embraided, fell far below her waist in wonderful, shining yellow waves. She was something above tue medium height, with a fine figure, and au easy, graceful swing in her movements that suggested the rhythm of numbers. She was, they said—for in such matters “they” have decided opinions —not so pretty as Josie, but more elegant looking. In the dusk of a summer’s twi light we walked together under the stars. "I shall never have a girl to suit me as you do for a friend. I can talk to nobody in the world as I talk to you. What shall I do without you; O, Jeff, I cannot let you go! And yet,” dashing away her tears and breaking into a bright smile,” “I must not tell you to stay, for you are no longer a boy, and I want you to be such a man,” stopping to scan uiy (5 feet of height, “such a man as, with such a physique, you ought to be! I shall be proud of you one day, 1 know 1 shall.” “Bessie,” I began, abruptly. I wonder she did not notice how harsh and husky my voice was. “I want to tell you something. I want you to make me a promise. But I know it would not be fair to you. I don’t exactly know what to do, for I am afraid to wait, and I do not think it would be fair to you or your brother.” I went on, blun dering more and more, I was so savagely in earnest. “But at least you cau make me this promise. You will write to me, sweet est cousin, just as we talk to each other. Tell mo all your bright, funny thoughts, and everything that happens in connection with vourself. Will you ?” “Why, of course 1 shall do that.” “But, remember, you must keep back nothing from me. Not even what that empty-headed Craig has to say to you. Let me know who admirers my splendid white rose, my queen of flowers. Keep nothing from mo—not even—when—you give your heart away. Promise again, won’t you!” “Yes, and of course you will do the same. ” “You know that before you ask —and, Bessie, give me your hand. If I should not come back, do not give my place to another. You know what I mean?” “Precious old Jeff! Be quite sure of that. You are just yourself to me, and all the love in all the world could not take the place of yours. Be sure of that, my dearest Jeff, my brother!” That last jarred me very much. I asked her to kiss me out there under the stars, which she did, frankly and unblushingly. Thus we parted. I pass over the six years of study and travel. The object I had in view made them short. With the memory of my blighted childhood before me, I said my fu ture should be as perfect as wealth and fame and love could make it. I pass over the visit to my mother’s land; the man’s emotion amid the scenes of his early sorrows. I pass over the sweet letters from my cousin, until the second one I have given you to read. It came after years of wait ing, and the shock it gave me was terrible. The next followed soon after. The third was not sent, but given to me afterward. On an evening in the spring that followed Harold’s death, I stood before her once more. No need to speak of what I felt at that supreme moment. I had left her in her own room where she was most tenderly be loved, without the shadow of a care on her bright face I found her alone as I have tried to picture her—with a look in her sweet eyes it broke my heart to see. It told too plainly of lonely nights and wearisome days, of such hunger of heart as 1 had thought my darling should never know. Why had I left her so long to battle with poverty and sorrow? A look of glad sur prise flashed into her face at sight of me. Bhe gave me a hearty, frank welcome. Afterward when I talked of some busi ness arrangements I had settled, she grew very proud and would not hear ine. Then she told me of the doctor, and I was jealous. With my old willful pride strong upon me I sneered when she sp >ke his praises. Did she think I was blind that I could not see what it meant ? I left her full of bitterness. I think I should not have taken it so hard, if she had sent that letter. In its place, two weeks lator, she sent me a few hurried pages, telling me of her engagement—as she had promised she wrote to tell me, her best friend, when she gave her heart away—and asking me to be present at her marriage. I was wicked then! I said I was a fool for ever having such a dream. I might have known that it was too full of sweetness for such as I! My father’s sin had rested over my early years like a blight. What right had I to hope it would uot follow me to my grave? It was he who had won me to think differently; this girl whose gentle but firm hand had led me from the old defiant bit terness, up higher and higher, until I hail dared to think she was born to be my good angel. Well, the dream was at an end! And the glimpses I had had of a future, en nobled by work, glorified by love, they were at an end too for all time. And the work stself! That was at end too. For why should I work? Why should I live indeed? Wno was there to care if I should yield to that terror of my father’s last years, and end my life before it became, like his, un endurable? His sin had been great, but now I began to understand something of his jealous torture My poor father! Grad ually though slowly better thoughts came. The black ones could not stay with that pure face which I could not thrust out of my heart. I remembered my father’s face when he spoke of the man he fancied his rival How, after all that had passed, it was full of fierce hate. I remembered bow the very thought of the man’s perfections had seemed to increase his bitterness ten lold. And, heaven help me! I knew that, tried as he was, I should have been no better. The knowledge terrified me. I struggled honestly, and I think I can say it—l cannot say more than that—l did not hate the man sbo loved. But it would have been a relief to have found some objection to make. I knew' of none. I wrote and congratulated her. And then I went to work. 1 prospered in that. If 1 had died in those days there would have been small chance for my soul. I was not a good man. 1 certainly did not work from the right motive, but with a kind of dogged, persistont defiance of destiny; battling with my disapiointinont proudly, but not manfully or patiently. I would Lave blamed her if 1 could. I tried to say it, yet I knew it was not truo, that I wished I had not known her. She had given to my life its sweetest, holiest lop es. Side by side with my mother—my childhood's saint —sbo sat enthroned. I did not wish to kuow her again. I preferred to think of her as I thought of mv doad. So, when in a few brief lines she told me of the doctor’s death, I kept away from her; though all the tenderness of liiysoul was stirred at thought of her —widowed liefore she was a wife, doubly bereft and desolate in her first wom anhood. Hlie would never get over this. Her young life was shadowed for all that. And then-was fierce rebellion in my heart for her. Huroly it was a cruel and [sirverse destiny that hail ruled over our two lives. \Ve had had more than our share of sorrow. 1. in the strong griefs of my childhood, in tim remembrance of my own mothers ruined life, my father's mnv, and late and bitter repentance, neforc niv manhood's boje* had died in my breast. Hhe, in the early family troubles, in the loss of home olid wealth, in the torture of watching the slow breaking of the heart of her hest be lovisl And when joy had com# to her at last, how swiftly and cruelly ,t hail lawn siiatrned from her, leaving her mors alone than ever. Whoflo was tint |roviden<w in /solid not w- that fai* abadowed with a life long woa I must keep away from hr That wa 1 ertaln. About this tuna bushisai calhsl me to the THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1887. neighborhood of Harwood Place It had changed very much. The owner cared lit tle for anything except the money which the fine property brought him. He found it expensive, lie told me, to keep up any show of style, the grounds were so extensive. And he added that he would very gladly sell the placo if he could do so to advan tage. I immediately proposed to buy it, and before we parted wo had almost settled the terms. Later I bought the place and myself saw to its being restored to its former magnificence. I took especial pride in making it ,as nearly as possible, what it had been when it was Bessie Harwood’s home. In every improvement hers and Harold’s well-remembered tastes were con sulted. It grew to be my chief interest— the embellishing of this the only real home I had eve;' had. 1 did not know why then, for I was ever a sadder man after I had been there. I think now it was a kind of tender memorial to her, thinking of her as dead to me. It did not occur to mo that she would evet know it or care for it. My next care was to see her provided for more comfortably. I knew that owing to the suddenness of the doctor’s death he could not have thought of that. I soon stumbled upon a plan. When I bought Harwood Place I found that there was a small portion of the lands that still belonged to Harold Harwood’s heirs. It had been considered so valueless that his lawyer had carelessly let it escape him. But it now yielded a yearly rent, though small, and served my purpose effectually. I wrote to my cousin ami told her that she would henceforth receive a yearly allowance. That I had discovered that something remained to the family from the wreck of their property. 1 deceived her as to the sum, of course, but I made no misstatement. After that she boarded with her sister. * CHAPTER VI. In the autumn that followed I chanced to pass the town of , which'was but a few miles from Valley Field, the home of Josie’s husband. Realizing how near I was to my cousins, nnd how uncousinly it seemed to pass them, I yet could not make up my mind to trust myself there. While in this state of indecision I recognized Mr. Wallace on the platform, and could not, with politeness, refuse his very pressing wish that 1 should drive home with him. I had but the half of a day at my disposal. It was evidently a most pleasant surprise to my cousins. Josie—looking very beauti ful and very happy—told me how much it grieved them that I had seemed estranged from them, my nearest of kin. That they both regarded me as a dear brother, and she begged that the old relations might bo re newed, and hoped that I would often come and spend my Sundays and holidays with them. And Bessie agreed with all she said. Though she did not look changed or sad, yet the grave sweetness of her manner lent her new charm I could not quite her out. And somehow I felt happier when I went away. It was much to have seen her, and to know that, at least, she was not broken in heart. She could not be There were no traces of a hidden sorrow on her open face. She was not in the least like I expected to find her after such a blow. The result of this visit—or was it but the result of mjf unconquerable loneliness?—was a let ■ ter in which 1 laid bare my heart with its lost hope. I said she should know, and then if she chose we should be friends. I could not afford to lose the preciousuess of her society, if I might enjoy it sometimes— and could she not let me hone for her love some time in the future? 1 was at Har wood Place, where I hail gone for a week’s rest, when I received her next letter, the fifth, in my package. My Dear Jeffrey. Since your short visit to Valley Field in the autumn. I have been thinking very much of our happy past, and of what perfect confidence existed between us. And I have been won dering if it were through anything that I have done that it exists no longer. Or is it but the natural course of things in this strange world we live in? Do all friends, as they grow older, and jniss the fresh enjoyment of their first youth, grow colder too, and find new inter ests, form new ties? Ido not like to think so. Or at least, if the new ties must be formed, that the strength of the old ones should lesson. Yet I must not complain. Though our former intimacy seems quite broken up, I have feltjyour kindness in many ways. But for that, you know, I should not now be enjoying a delightful independence. How delightful, only those who nave been used to work hard for the barest living can understand. If you had not, in your never failing thoughtfulness, taken the trouble to look into our affairs. I should never have known that it belonged to me. I wish I had known it before my brother died, that he might have had more comforts. Bhall I ever, ever learn to be resigned for him t What especially calls forth this letter— which will, of course, surprise you—is this: Mrs. Craig has been on a visit to her daugh ter who lives in the adjoining town. She came to see us yesterday. She asked mo, in the course of our taik, h I had ever been to Harwood Place since it had passed out of the family. Seoing the pain in my face the thought of that precious home in stranger hands must always bring, she said quickly: “You know that Jeffrey Harwood has bought it. In his bands the place is trans formed from almost a wilderness to its former stateliness. It is indeed a handsome property. I drove through the grounds a few weeks ago, and I notice that Jeffrey has faithfully remembered your brother’s rather odd fancies. The urrangment is, with a few minor exceptions, exactly what it was when you lived there. Of course you know that he owns the place, and spends a week down there occasionally, but 1 thought he might not have told you how he bait im proved it, and 1 knew you would bo glad.” Glad! O, dearest cousin, how caa I thank you? To know that it belongs to a Har wood is very much. But the tender tribute to his memory!—that touches my heart in its tenderest place. I shall thank you all iny life! My letter might end here, as our life at Valley Field, though full of interest to ourselves, floats on in an even, hum-drum way. But you asked me of Edith when you were here, and I have something beautiful !to tell you of her. You know that since I have been here she has been matron in a hospital. She was with us a week ago. "1 never tlsiught, Bessie,” I give you her own words, “that. 1 should over come to find so much peace in this barren life of mine. 1 have my heart sot on one object, and I have almost saved enough to begin the work. I want the old homo where Harold died torn down and a Children’s Home built on the same sjxit. Mr. Temple has been very kind in helping me to plan for it, and an un known giver, whom I suspect to be your cousin, has contributed very generously. Ho that the work need not bo deluyed. The cluqiel w ill be a memorial from me. I shall spend iny life there, and when Igo to and fro among the poor little ones. I sliall bear him in my heart always!” Edith is a queenly woman. A tremor in her voice made me look away, but in a mo ment she was herself. She was standing by the window looking out far away—as il bur gaze wore not bounded by the green fields outside. I looked again at the grand black-robed figure, ‘at the chastened beauty hi the proud face. And I thought of the flay when she iuul grand in her pride and anger. Yes, Edith is a queenly woman. A woman any man would lai proud to win. 1 half wonder, watching bar absently, if she might not outlive ibis great, sorrow, and be a happy woman yet. VVheii she sjieaks again I see how, in tint half admitted thought, born of her beauty, I had wronged her rare faithfulness. I had uot taken in tiie beauty of the sacrifice she is making. 1 had not rememtiered that she | never loved children. “I think If 1 hod bud a child of his,” she I said, “I should have devoted in v life to that. Since 1 have not, I will odofit times homeless little ones: nnd some fine of them may • creep intdjrny empty heart, and make the ' waiting less lonely. 11, low lovely my lirother's life might 'isvc is ii, end we* not! The grandest iiu.q I ever knew, to have loved <ucu a woman as ' K4uh, and never to have known low true |mm was ! I'arbaps be knew it always, and that was the secret of his deathless love, his un navering faith in her. Dec. 3.—i have received your letter, dear cousin Jeffrey. Oh, how could you write like that? Did you know quite how precious our old-time lovo was to me that you could spoil it so? 1 have grieved that it seemed at an end, but I grie -e far more that it should end thus! I have deeply searched my heart. I would so gladly give you the love you ask. Ido indeed love you, but it is not that No, lam sure it is not that. And you, whom I have so greatly longed to make happy. But why should I torture you with words? Thousands of things are in my heart for you, but I do not know how to say them. If I had a mother, Jeffrey—O, that I had!—l think she would weep over me to-night. I never dreamed of this. It is worse than all. You are next in my heart, to my sister, hardly less dear; but you will not care to know it since you ask for another, but surely not a truer love than that I now bear you. God bless you! Your cousin, Bessie Hahwood. “Then she did love Hawks! - ’ I groaned, as if there ooubl lie no other reason for hav ing refused my love! As if it were to be supposed so fine a girl could have found her ideal in me! I went back to my work. * * * * * * What was the matter with the world? My cases went wrong. Everything jan gle<l, and was out of tune. Was the fault mine? If so, could l afford to drag through my days in this heavy way! The unsettled and somewhat unusal life I had led had kept me from being what is called a “society man.” 1 said I would try that phase of life. It seemed to come to me naturally; and I thought of the feverish ex citemont with which my father had rushed into every kind of amusement; how neces sary it had seemed, at one time of his life, that he should be courted ami flattered. It was because lie could not. bear his own thoughts! Thus, at almost every step of tnv life, 1 recognized in ray own lesser griefs how greatly ho bad suffered, and how ten der toward his faults his son should be. 1 was thus far beneflttod by mixing with my kind. I heard a wholesome truth of my self, in not particularly flattering terms, one evening at a soiree. “Jeff Harwood is a romantic fool,” came to my ears from somebody very near me, whom I could not see for the press of the crowd. “What do you think is the latest about him?” “I cannot imagine.” “Why, they say the fellow doesn’t marry on account of a boyish ‘affaire due coeur’— all on his part, too—with his cousin, Harold Harwood s sister. The girl, they say, is a trump. Nursed the old chap after he broke, and took care of him in the most approved style until he had the grace to die and re lieve her. Then she engaged herself to a doctor there, a rather slow fellow, but awfully sure, and rich enough to buy any woman body and soul. He hail the good sense to die, too, and leave her for some bet ter fellow; aud, instead of breaking her heart over it, they say she s as bonny and buxom as over, which proves that she liked his money better than she liked him. But for all that she was too sensible to take Harwood without a little wooing on the strength of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’” “Did he expect that? "I never thought Harwood conceited.” “It seems so. He went down to see ber once, and on bis return wrote to her offer ing his immaculate seif, not doubtiui that she would thankfully accept the boon. Or so it is presumed The housekeeper at Harwood Place tells that he received . loi ter from her —she knew it was from her be cause he told her so—when she brought it to him—and began to road it as if wonderfully set up, but when he finished it he shut him self up in his room, and when he came out next morning looked liked he had seen a ghost.” “Pshaw! Grimes! You disgust me with your gossip. The genuine article, I should say. Discussing one’s private affairs with one’s housekeeper.” “But it came to me second hand. Ever ard Craig got it out of the oid lady. He lives a few miles from Harwood Place. I assure you he vastly enjoyed the joke, and told it with abundant relish. He was ‘soft’ on '(Jueen Bess. 1 as he calls her, himself, anil I think he intends to try his luck again. Fool for doing it, too. For my part. I should like to see the Harwood pride brought down a little. No doubt Craig will succeed if he waits awhile; for, like all women, she means to marry, and she’s too poor to carry such a higli head long.” “Allow me to suggest that you might lie more careful in speaking of ladies; especial ly of one whoso family entitles her to re spect, not to mention her own character. I do not see how you can take offense at the Harwood pride, since you are barely on speaking terms with young Harwood.” “That’s just it. Because I don’t go back to Adam for a linejof ancestors, all of those names 1 have learned by rote, the fool thinks himself too good to speak to me.” “Ah! ah! That’s the weak spot in your armor, is it? But you are mistaken, old fel low. Jeff Harwood is the liuest young man I know, and much above false pride of birth, though he can afford to hold his head higher than most of us. I would advise you not torejieat your unniauly remarks about his cousin where they cau reach his ears, or 1 will not answer for the consequences. His temper is hot when roused, and he has plenty of family pride.” Here Grimes commended “family pride” to an individual I do not like to mention, and to a place where it could hardly have a fair showing. He added with a muttered curse: “Do you think I care for his /family pride?’ I would repent it to his face. That milk-and-water cousin of his is no better thuii any other woman. 1 could marry her myself. She’ll marry Craig before another year, or call Harwood Lack, according to her caprice. A woman must marry. I un derstand her role <” It is impossible to describe the insulting tone in which those words were spoken. AH the hot blood iny fat her gave mo rushed into my face as I hoard them. They were meant to insult mo, though the coward could not know that I was so near him. But the disrespect to her! My friend was right. 1 could not answer for myself. I asked my companion, who, of course, had heard every word, to excuse me. I pushed through the crowd and laid a heavy hand on the speak er’s shoulder. I looked at my watch. “In a half hour,” I said, "I shall see Miss Meredith home. After that lam at your service. Where shall I find you?” “What do you mean?” he stammered, with an oath. “Meet me at my office at 1 o’clock and you shall know,” I answered. The effort it cost me to control my indig nation sufficiently to say this instead of knocking him down where he stood almost took my breath. It was fortunate that i had to return to Miss Meredith. The self control I was obliged to maintain in her presence served in some degree to cool my liurniug rage. I found the fellow at my office when 1 returned. I unlocked the door and he passed in before me. “Now,” 1 said, as I turned up the light, “I demand an apology for the lady whose mime you have daijj J to take on your foul lips. Ido not stoop# i rotice the low gos sip in connection with my own affuirs Miss Harwood is my cousin, and whoever speuks her name lightly shall suffer for it unless he makes full and sufficient retrac tion! You can take your choice of the two!” “By heaven! you are wonderfully touchy.” After a pause: “Will you let a fellow sleep on it. “No,” I began, but I changed my mind. Then rising anil holding open the door; “Go,” 1 said, “If you are too cowardly to return to morrow with an apoiogjr, you are too contemptible to shoot ” lie laugiwsi dis dainfully. “I rather think you are mistaken in your iuan. Ho do not comfort yourself j with the hope that the affair Is at cud!” 1 smoked a cigar Isforr 1 retired. I said to myself that the stupid fellow was beneath ! inv resentment: that I would not allow my self to lie annoyed by the merest idle go • sip. And yet it rankled! That I should tie i the kubje t of petty speculation end com - i io-ij! Its i uot rwiw home to itie before* | What i nasi does not lunch as If mtum rude hand hail touched a wound should he chance to hear his most secret and sacred hopes made public for the crowd to gape at i That was infinitely annoying. But to hear her sorrow that to me seemed so holy and beau tiful, her life, and her motives discussed _so brutally! That was more than I know how to endure. Could a liiau, then, have noth ing of his own? Must liis most precious pearls be trodden underfoot by such swine i How little I had known of the world to imagine that my secret was my own? She, perhaps, had learned this lesson long ago, and had treated it as all high souls treat trifles. But I could not. It rankled! The next morning Grimes, accompanied by the friend who had defended me, came to my private rooms. Grimes had been drinking. “Well.” he began, swaggeringly, “1 see your night's sleep has put you in a better frame of mind. Come, now, own that I said the truth—” “You had better stop there,” I inter rupted. “I am not a man to be trifled with. I suppose you have come to apologize.” “No, by heaven I I—” “Then we must have it out. Choose your time and place!” Here my friend interfered. “I think you have boon rather hasty, Harwood. Grimes really seems to admire your cousin. 1 do not think he in tended —” “Let him speak for himself, if you please,” [ interrupted again. “I*will,” Grimes said, with a black oath. “Since you heap insults in my very teeth I can fight too! Can’t a follow speak a. girl’s name, but ho must be pitched into in this style! But you shall see that I can meet you on your own ground. I rather fancy a duel, there's the zest of doing it on the sly and being arrested when the work’s done. You shall not have it all your way this time, for all your blamed Harwood mulishness!” I asked my friend to make the necessary arrangements, and they retired. My friend returned in mi hour. Ho urged me to give up so rash a thing, and to allow Grimes to make overtures, as, he insisted, I had not done. .“The fellow is beneath me, ” 1 said. “I had farjrather horse- whip him. Ido not like dueling, but since I can punish him in no other way, 1 afn just desperate enough to be dragged iuto a most ridiculous affair. I shall not try to kill him. My life is not worth much lam a lonely sort of follow, you know. I understand how you regard it, and you are right. A Harwood should have a foeman worthy of bis steel, but it matters very little now.” He seemed touched at my words. He spoke to me kindly and earnestly. “I know it was exasperating,” he con cluded, “yet Ido not think he meant to speak lightly of your cousin, in particular. He is accustomed to speak in that way of all girls. ” “Then I will teach him 1 letter than to speak thus of my friends. A lesson that he needs. ” “1 cannot see how you will teach him any lesson by allowing him to shoot you down in cold blood; by allowing him to take a useful life that is worthy to end more no bly And ought you not to consider the un pleasant notoriety such an affair will bring on your cousin f” He bad touched the right chord, and he knew it. “What do you want mo to do?” I asked. “To accept a written apology which I will bring to you, which I am certain I can procure.” “I have said that l would take an apolo gy Bring it, and, if I consider it sufficient, I will let you know.” lie brought it that afternoon. It was ample and characteristic. I accepted tliut ungraciously enough, but hail the grace to thank my friend sincerely for saving me from the folly I had contemplated. But Grimes had told me a truth. What did Bessie Harwood know of me that she should love me? 'What foolish conceit indeed to ask her to marry a man she knew when she was a girl of Iff, with out (as he had said) a longer wooing. I had spoiled everything by iny unseemly haste, even if she hail not loved already. I am not proud of this episode in my life. I should not mention it, but it belongs to the story I am trying to tell. ITO BE CONTINUED.] LEMON ELIXIR A Pleasant Lemon Drink. Fifty cents anil one dollar per bottle. Sold by druggists. Prepared by H. Mozley, M. D., Atlanta, Georgia. For biliousness and constipation take Lemon Elixir. For indigestion and foul stomach take Lemon Elixir. For sick and nevous headaches, take Lemon Elixir. For sleeplessness and nervousness take Lemon Elixir. For loss of appetite and debility take Lemon Elixir. For fevers chills and malaria take Lemon Elixir, all of which diseases arise from a torpid or diseased liver. Lemon Hot Drops Cure all Coughs, Colds. Hoarseness, Sore Throat, Bronchitis and nil Throat and Lung diseases. Price 25c. Hold by druggists. Prepared by H. Mozley, Atlanta, Ga., in both liquid iind lozenge form earth rrxt. A CHEAT mm ! EARTH FUEL. Going Like Wildfire! Burns as Long as Wanted in Any Grate, Stove or Furnace. !! . ! f ■ V" -i t '~T ' ■ JV Si!* a loW>h" s X. itSit. , sVg* 'trade mark. Complete Outfit $1.50. LIVE MEN CAN MAKE BIG MONEY. Address EARTH FUEL CO., 2 Platt St., New York. T. H. MCINTOSH, SOLE AGENT FOR GEORGIA, Headquarter* at Savannah aud Atlauta. Any order* forward.*! to him will be prompt ly ftlfed. SALMON. SALMON! One carlcfcid Salmon Just ar rived direct from San Francisco. In transit, one carload of As sorted Cal irorn la Canned Fruits. To arrive, two carloads of Salmon. ~ swo run uii ay M. FERST & CO. MILLINERY. PLATSHEK’S, 138 Broughton Street. 'Sul Carnival Cut IN THE PRICES OF High Art Embroidery Materials. Thane prices will remain the same throughout the season unless factory prices changes. Fasten Your Eyes Right Here ! as Skeins (1 bunch) of Corticelli, best skein Embroidery Silk, in every shade, for 15c. I” skeins (double length) Shaded Embroidery Silk for 20c. 12 Skeltis Florence Filoselle Silk, every shade, for 24c. Florence Etching Silk, in every shade, at 3c. a spool. Florence Best Knitting Silk, Y\ ounce spools, for 38c. each. Best Quality Silk Arasene (18 yards to bunch), in every shade. 180. a bunch Superior Silk Ribbonsene (.18 yarns to bunch), in every shade, 25c. a bunch. Every shade Frosted Tinsel (8)$ yards to ball) at each. No. 1 Silk Chenille (15 yards to bunch), in every shade, for 28c. a bunch. No. 2 Silk Chenille'(ls yards to bunch), in every shade, for 18c. a bunch. Bergman's Imported Berlin Zephyrs, in 2,4, 8 fold, at f 1 per pound of 16 laps, or ?c. per lap; a line consisting of nearly 1,000 shades and con tinued the largest in the South Slietlaud Floss and other Fancy Wools, giving the heal weight In this country, at $1 per pound, or 7c. per ounce. None Can Touch Us. W have tbp largest and best detailed depart ment devoted to this purpose in this city. Get Rock Bottom Prices From us on 2-yard wide French Felts, hi every shade. Lambrequin Ornaments, Chenille and Silk Cords, Canvasses of all kinds, 26-tueh Plushes, Macreme Cord, Darning Cottons, Embroidery Cottons, Linen Floss and the host of such articles kept in a first-class department devoted to this use. Bargains throughout our eutire linos of MILLINERY and FANCY GOODS P. S.— Mail orders promptly attended to. DRY GOODS. CLEARING JUT SALE. To Make Room for Fall Stock, I will offer Special Inducements in MY ENTIRE STOCK, With exception of my Empire State Shirt. r T'HE following goods will be sold cheaper than 1 ever offered in Savannah; Summer and India Silks. Cream, White and Light Shades of Albatross. Colored ami Black all Wool Dress Goods. Block Camel's Hair Grenadines at 80c.; 40-inch wide Printed Linen I.awns at loss than cost. Heal Scotch Ginghams at loss than cost. Black Henriettas at $1 40 and $1 75; sold at $2 and $2 25. Ladies' and Children’s Silk and Lisle Thread Hose In black and colored. Ladies' and Children's Undervests; best goods In tlie market. Linen Sheeting and Pillow-Case Linen. Cream and White Tuble Damask. 9-4 White Damask at $1; former price $1 50. Napkins and Doylies In cream and white. Linen Damask Towels in white and colored bordered. Linen lluck in white and colored bordered, l’antry Crash Doylies at great reduction. The above gi >ods will bo offered at prices to insure quick solo. J. P. GERMAINE, Next to Furber’s. 132 Broughton street. PORTRAIT!. He Great Southern Portrait Company, SAVANNAH. GEORGIA. L. 13. DAVIS, Secretary and Manager of the Great South ern Portrait Company. AN inspection of Hamples of our Portraits at our office, with Davis Bros., 42 and 44 Bull street, will gioatly Interest those who contem plate having small pictures of themselves, their friends, living and deceased, copied and enlarged in OIL, WATER COLOR, INDIA INK, PAH TELLE and CRAYON. We guarantee a per fect likeness and excellence of work. We have about TWENTY DIFFERENT STYLES AND GRADES IN SIZES OF ENLARGED POR TRAITS from Bxlo to 50x90, and our prices are from $2 to SBOO each. EMPLOY FORTY ART ISTS; been twenty-six years In the business; have a U.IMI candle-power ELECTRIC LIGHT, uml are fully prepared with all proper expedi tion and skill to execute all orders promptly and satisfactorily. We respectfully solicit your orders. L. B. DAVIS, Secretary and Manager The Great Southern Portrait Cos. TETTKItINK. As Good as Gold. Miuacdosville, G*., Aug. 12th, 1867. Mr. J. T. Shuptrine <f Hro.: Ointlkmen—Enclosed you will find St, for which please send me sl’s worth of your TET TERINE. This make* five boxes of your moat valuable remedy that I have sent for, one only lieing for myself, I hod the tetter a* bad as any one ever did. I suffered night and .hty until a friend told me to send for your TKTTERINE, and it would cure me. This I did, and was cured in a few days. The first box cured me and two of my friends. Mr. M. M. Johnson was suffering death with It: hail been in bod for sev eral days. 1 seut to you for two boxes, by his request, and one box cured him, and he gave the rest to a friend, who was also cured. This Is for Mr. J. M. Youngblood, who has the tetter so bad that he cannot get about to do anything, and requests me to send for two boxes. Your TKTTKKINE Is worth its weight in gold, and everybody ought to know something about its value I can and will recommend it to every body that suffers with tetter or Itch. Respectfully, HOTELS. NEW HOTEL TOGNL (Formerly St. Mark's.) Newnan Street, near Bay, Jacksonville, Fla WINTER AND HUMMER. rr>HF, MOST central House In the city. Near J Post Office, Street Cars and all Kerries. New and Elegant Furniture. Electric Bella, Bath*, Etc. $2 50 to $3 per day. JOHN 11 TOfiNI, Proprietor. _ DUB’S SCREVEN HOUSE. r |''HlS POPULAR Hotel 1* now provided with 1 a Passenger Elevator (the only one In the city) and lias been remodeled and newly fur nished The proprietor, who by recent purchase is also the owner of the establishment. spares neither |uiiu* nor nxpensn in the entertainment of hi* guests. The patronage of Florida visit ors Is earnestly invited The table of the Screven House is supplied with every luxury that the markets st home or abroad can afford. HANKS. KISSIMMEE CITY BANK, Kiasiinnies City, Orange County, Fla. CAPITAL • ■ • $50,000 r | , RANHAI.T a regular liauklng business Give I particular attention t,, Florida cuUag||f|M Corresiseidemvi solicited lasi is Kxchauge on Nsw York, Now < frteans, fktiannab and J*'< warn!!-. 1 la. Resident Agents fur Coups 4t Go. EDUCATIONAL. For Full Information of the Above Schools CALL ON OR AIWRKSS HOKNSTF.IV Ac MACCAW, 104 Bay Street, Savannah, Go University of Georgia. P. 11, MELL, D. D., LL. D., Chancellor. THE 87th session of the Departments at Ath ens will begin Wednesday, October 5, 1887. TUITION FREE, except in Law Deiiartraent. LAMAR COBB, Secretary Board of Trustees. SCHOOL FOR BOYST" OGLETHORPE BARRACKS. JOHN A CROWTHER, Principal. CHAB. A. L. MASS IE, A. M , Assistant. >T EXT session begins Oct. 3d. Careful and H thorough instruction in all the departments of a first-class preparatory school. Special attention to Mathematics and English Natural Philosophy, with apparatus. Principal refer* hv permission to following patrons: rapt. John Flannery, (’apt. W. G. Raoul, Rev. Thomas Boone, Dr. Osceola Butler. Messrs. George C. Freeman, W. E. Guerard, A. 8. Bacon and W. W. Chisholm. Catalogues at offices of Mouyntd News, Ihtily rimes, at Estill's News Depot, But ler’s. Strong's and Thornton's drug stores. For further information address the PRINCIPAL, Savannah, Qa. EMORY COLLEGE; OXFORD, GA. '•|-'HE INSTITUTION enters upon its fifty first I session October 12, 1887, with enlarged fac ulty and Increased facilities. For Catalogue* and information write to ISAAC S, HOPKINS. President. Academy of St. Vincent dc Paul, BAVANNAII, GA. CONDUCTED BY SISTERS OF MERCY. Studies will Is- resumed September 19, 1887. For further iiarticulars apply to MOTHER SUPERIORESS. I aGKANGE FEMALE COLLEGE, LaOrangs, \j Ga. 41st Annual Session lieginsSept. 21,1887, Best advantages in Health, Morals, Literature. Music and At. Rook keeping, Ell -cut ion, Vocal Music and Cal sthenieg taught fee iii regular course. No Incidentals or extra charges. Expen ses moderate. $10,090 now lwlng spent In un prorements. Send for Catalogue and be con vinced RUFUS W. SMITH, Pres. EULER B. SMITH. Secy. CLOTHING. FALL 1887. We are pleased to announce that we are now exhibiting samples from which to uieVa selections for Clothing to Order, and feel confident that this season will add greatly to our already widespread popularity in this branch of our business. We are showing all the uewost designs, colors and textures of materials, the best productions of foreign and domestic markets, and guaran tee stylish, easy ami graceful fitting garments, thoroughly made, and at moderate prices. We would advise the pricing of orders with us early, that the garments may lie finished in time. Although we have largely increased our facilities in this department, we may not be ab!o to keep pace with the demand later on. If goods do not please in every particular our customers are requested not to take them. Satisfaction is guaranteed. To my old customers we make the above an nouncement, satisfied with the result. Of those who have never dealt with us we ask a trial. Respectfully, A.FALK&SQN DOOHS, HASH, ETC. ANDREW HANLEY. DEALER IN Doors, Sashes, Blinds. Mouldings, Etc. All of the above are Best Kiln-Dried White Pina. ALSO DEALER IH Builders’ Hardware, Slate, Iron and Wooden Mantels, Grates, Stair work, Terracotta, Sewer Pipe, Etc., Etc. Paints, Oils, Railroad, Steamboat and Mill Supplies, Glass, Putty, Etc. Lime, Plaster, Cement and Hair. Plain atftl Decorative Wall Paper, Frescoelng, House and Sign Painting given personal atten tion and finished in the best maimer. AjjDREW II AX IKY. DIM GS AM> MI.HK I N Em. Don't Do It! Don't Do What? Y\ T HY don't walk our tony street* with that t v nice dm or suit of clothes on with Stains orGrou ■ Sjh,iv in, to which the Savannah dust sticks closer than a brother,'' when Japanese Cleansing Cream will take them out clean a* anew pin. 2ftc. a buttle. Made only by J. R. HALTIWANGER, At bis Drug Kuans, Broughton and InayUtn, WhlUkei and Wayne streets. Xfrszfcsxtu tot X vi.au. at the UmUmm vdaa 5