Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

nSfftlToF HONOLULU, From the Courier-Journal. How beautiful sbe was! How wild! Pure as a water plant, this child. This one wild child of nature hers Grown tall in shadows. And how near To God, where no man stood between Her eye and scenes no man hath seen. Stop still, my friend, and do not stir, Shut close your page and think of her. The birds sang sweeter for her face; Her lifted eyes were like a grace; 'Pi e rippled rivers of her hair That ran in wondrous waves somehow Plowed down divided by her brow, And mantled her within its care. A perform and an incense lay Before her. as an ineen.se sweet Before blithe mowers of sweet hay in early morn. Her certain feet Km barked on uo uncertain way. Gome, think how perfect before men; llow sweet as sweet maguolia bloom, Kmbnlmed in dews of morning when New sunlight leaps from midnight gloom, Knthrnlled to kiss, and first to kiss. Yea. she was tempting like to this! She was as the Madonna to The tawny,-dreamful, faithful few Who touched her hand and knew her soul; She drew them, drew them as the pole points all things to itself. tslir, drew Souls upward as the noon of Spring. High wheeling, vast and shining full. Half clad in clouds and white as wooi, Draws all the strong seas following. Joaquin Mii.ler. MORNING NEWS LIBRARY NO. si 8. ROMANCE OF UK JIMOND. BY WALTER M. RICHMOND. Copyrighted, 1887, bij J. 11. Kstill. CHAPTER I. \Vl:en affliction thunders o'er our roofs. To hide our heads and run into our graves Shows us no men. hut makes us fortune's slaves. —JonsoH. The cold, cloudy October day was draw ing to a close. (mt on the campus, fronting the coliege, live youths were gathered be neath a large sycamoro discussing a match game of ball which was to occur on the fol lowing Saturday between the college nine and a club from the university. The rest of the students, with the exception of a youth standing at the western gate, were in their rooms, driven thither perhaps by the damp, disagreeable weather. At length the eldest of the aforesaid group hating predicted a glorious victory for their club, of which ho was pitcher, pointed to ward the student at the gate, and laughing ly remarked to his companion: "l say, boys, what on earth is the matter with Paine? He is the quietest, gloomiest fellow I ever saw.” “I don't see why he should be,” said one of the boys. “His brilliant mind would cause any other boy to strut up and down the campus like a peacock.” “But Virgil is not one of that kind," promptly replied a uoble-looking, blue-eyed youth, whose, name was Charlie Morris*. “'Oh, I guess the. fellow's girl has kicked him,” said a fourth student, as he fondly stroked his infant moustache and laughed affectedly as he did so. “Virgil is in trouble,” said Charlie; “but he is not willing to initiate Tom, Dick and Harry into his secrets, and he is right. Poor fellow! I love Virgil Paine! He is as nice a boy as I ever knew. ” “Of course he is a good fellow,” said the first speaker. “We don’t doubt for a mo ment the truth of your assertion, Charlie; but still we don't like to see one of our num ber moping around here with the blues.” The rest of the group, with the exception of a pretty, girlish-faced boy of 17, prompt ly voted that Virgil was a good, noble boy. “Well, I reckon he's a very nice boy,” said the dainty lad, at length. “But I tell you what, boys, he has lowered himself mightily in my estimation by his making a bosom friend of that low-born, red-headed Quaker —Roger Penn —whose father is only a coun try blacksmith, and whose mother, they say, is bold enough to speak in church, or meet ing-house, as the long-faced, hypocritical Quakers style their place of worship. Roger Penn! Who is he, for heaven’s sake?” and the speaker elevated the tip of his nose as though the wind had suddenly wafted to his nostrils the offensive odor of wild onions. “Bolling MeKim," cried Charlie, shaking his Anger in the speaker’s blue-veined face, “you are my cousin, but gracious knows I am ashamed of the relationship. You are the most scornful, weak-minded upstart that walks upon two legs. If I had authority over you I would apply the lash of tho cow hide until every drop of old Pocahontas’ blood—if you have any—had dripped from your veins. What if Roger Penn’s father is only a blacksmith ? Rogor is as good as you are. Ah, pretty boy, you are high born, but you are far from being high-bred, and until your nature undergoes a mighty revolution you will never be a man. Virgil Paine is both high-born and high-bred, and he proves himself a man by the little valuo he places upon pedigree and money if they are unadorned with personal worth. He would as cheerfnlly associate with the son of a laborer as with the son of a nobleman, if the former were a congenial companion. Despite your being ait F. F. V., Bolling, Virgil thinks you inferior to Roger Penn, whom you scornfully term a low-born Qua “He thinks me—me —a descendant of John Rolfe and Pocahontas —inferior to a dirty blacksmith’s son? I bet he would never say such a thing in my hearing! I would break his nose—darn if I wouldn’t!” A scornful laugh broke from Charlie’s lips. “Virgil is no fighting character,” he said. "I never saw him in a disturbance in my life; but I would advise you, my blue blooded cousiu, not to attempt to break Vir gil’s nose. I wouldn’t like to see your dainty little body tossed over the fence, and your handsome, tightly-fitting fall suit soiled by your landing in one of the mud-puddles in the road. Virgil lias never said he thought you inferior to Roger, but of course lie can not help thinking so. I think ho myself.” “Charlie Morriss!” cried Bolling, his face reddening with anger, “hoW aunt Nannie and cousin Florine would blush with shamo to hear you speak in such a manner!” t “No doubt of it,” replied Charlie. “Mother and Florine are genuine MciCinis. If a person cannot prove himself a descen dant of Pocahontas or some other dark skinned heathen that lived two or threecen turies ago, they think no more of him than they do of a dog or a mule, however noble or talented a person mav be.” Tears of auger rushed to Rolling’s pale blue eyes, and, diving a hand in each l<oeket, he walked off. We will now turn to the youth standiug at the gate. Gentle reader,he is Virgil Paine, the young gentleman who is to figure as the hero of this novel. He is not a pretty, girlish laeed, curly-haired slim-legged boy; but lie is tali, splendidly-formed and intellectually handsome. His head is largo and magnifi cently shaped; his forehead is broad, lofty and remarkably fair. The rich coloring of Perfect health glows in his dimpled cheeks. His features are ail faultless. Those who ad mire extremely small mouths, however, may say Virgil's mouth is rathor large. At any rate, his well-shaped, and the sweet, winning expression that hovers about it, snd the ndfiitional charm the loveiy white teeth impart, when the lips move, more than compensate for the trifling defect. His eyes are large, eloquent, and of a dark brown color, and th. tender light they shed over his classic countenance makes him actually beautiful. As he stood thus alone, his eyes fixed sad ly, dreamily down the road, a quick, fa miliar step sounded on the gravel walks lio hind him. and, turning, he saw his bosom friend, Roger Penn, coming toward tho gate. “All alone, Virgil?” exclaimed Roger, placing his hand on our hero’s shoulder. “All alone, Roger,” replied the latter. '‘A gloomy day, isn’t it?” “It is, indeed; but you look far gloomier than the weather. Virgil, you are in trouble. You were sad enough last session, but I don’t think you have laughed since you came back to college this fall. Virgil, what is the matter? Are you not in trouble?” “Yes, Roger, I am in trouble,” replied Virgil, touched by the sympathetic tones of the Quaker yoiith, “and if it were not for the religion of Christ, I fear I should sink boneath my cross. I will tell you all, Roger, for I can confide in you. I was one of the happiest boys in the world until five years ago, when my lather began to drink and gamble, and—and —Oh, Roger, Roger, I cannot tell you all 1 If I did not love him for what he once was, and did not hope to reclaim him some day and thus bring hap piness back to our home, I would take mother and my little brother and leave him. Oh, my poor, wronged mother! God alone knows what she suffers, and with what meek fortitude she bears her sorrow. It nearly drives mo mad to soo my angel mother pining away under her trouble. Her heart is broken—her health is wrecked —and soon, very soon, she will be taken away from nip! ” Pausing to wipe his eyes, the boy con tinued: “Neither her tears and entreaties nor mine have proved of any avail with my father. He has gone on in his recklessness until not only our happiness, but also our fortune has been wrecked. All our property, except Fern Springs, the old homestead, has been sacrificed to cover his indebtedness, and t>e foro Christmas that will have passed into the hands of creditors, and then we shall all be sent adrift upon tho cold world —my err ing father, who never did a day’s work in his life; my frail, heart-broken mother, my littlo brother anil myself. It has ever beeii tho hope of my life to secure a first-class education, but I feel now that that hope can never be realized. After this session—if our circumstances allow me to finish the term—l shall be unable to attend co.lege any longer, for it is my duty to make an effort, however feeble, to prevent us from going to the almshouse. Oh, Roger! Tho future is so dark!” And throwing his arms around the neck of his companion, the poor boy sobbed like a little child. “My poor friend! God knows I pity you!” replied Roger, struggling hard to re press his emotion. “But, Virgil, don't grow despondent. God, who has comforted you in the past, will not forsake you when greater trials come. But let us go to our room. It is so cold out of doors.” Arm in arm the two youths crossed the lawn, aud passed around in the direction of the row of cottages to the southwest of the college. It was late in the evening, and al ready the lamps were burning. “1 feel miserable!” exclaimed Virgil, as he and his companion halted in the doorway of one the cottages. Who is that coining up the walk ?” he asked, as he sadly looked in t hat direction. “A telegraph messenger, 1 do lieve. Oh, my God! What does it bring?” “Be calm,” said the Quaker boy. “He may have a telegram for someone else —it may not be for you. I and every other student have as much cause to be alarmed as you have.” Turning to the messenger as he advanced he asked: “Will you inform me for whom you bring a message?” “1 have a telegram for Mr. Virgil W. Paine,” replied the messenger, stepping be fore the boys. “May' I see tne young gentle man?” “I am he,” said our hero, with forced composure, and, after dismissing the boy who hail brought it, he broke the envelope and read with nervous rapidity the few sad words: “Culpeper Court House, Oct. 7,18—. “Your father is dead. Come home.” “He is dead—my poor, erring lather—and gone before the judgment, seat of God with till his sins upon him! Oh, it is terrible! Pray for me, my friend, for I feel as if my heart were breaking! Please notify Prof. Carroll of what has happened while I pre pare for my journey, for I haven’t a mo ment to lose. ” Thus saying, Virgil ascended to the room he and Roger occupied, while the Quaker youth started off in search of the President of the faculty. “Hi, Virgil! What is the matter?” cried Charlie Morris, bursting into the room while the grief-stricken boy was in the mi dst of his preparations. “You are not going to leave us?’’ • “Yes, Charlie. I have received distress ing news—my father is dead. ” “Dead?”echoed Charlie, his great blue eyes filled with mingled surprise and sym pathy. “Well, that is sad—truly sad. I feel very, very sorry for you, Virgil!” Aud with these words he bounded out of the room to communicate to the students the sorrow that had befallen their comrade, whose modest, gentle demeanor had won for him a friend in every teacher and pupil. Half an hour later, when Virgil descend ed, almost every professor and student gath ered around him, and by their countenances showed how deeply they sympathized with him in his bereavement. “My carriage is at your service, my son,” said the kind-hearted President, after offer ing his warm sympathy and bestowing upon his young friend his farewell blessing. “Roger Penn will accompany you to the de pot.” “Thank you, professor,” returned our hero. “Good-by, sir. Good-by, boys.” A moment afterward the carriage con taining Virgil and Roger was out of sight. Arriving at the depot, Virgil found that he had only a few minutes left. After pur chasing his ticket, and checking his bag gage, lie turmTi to his friend, and in a voice tremulous with emotion, murmured: “Of course I shall. Good-by, Roger. Re member your sad-liearted friend in your prayers.” “Good-by, Virgil. I shall be very lonely without you.” With a warm pressure of the hands the boys hurriedly parted, each burdened with a weight of sorrow and disappointment. There were few passengers aboard the train. Three gentlemen, in the heat of a political discussion, wore seated about mid way the far, and opposite the excited trio sat an elderly lady and a gentleman. Vir gil, desiring to boas secluded as possible, passed to the further end of the coach, and there, seated in a dimly-lighted corner, as the train dashed on through the darkness, the unhappy youth, in his imagination, lived’over again the happy scenes of his early boyhood, throe again he was a joy ous-hearted bov, wandering with his little golden-haired sister in search of ferns and waterlilies. Once again he was seated upon his father's knee gazing with childish pride and affection up into the noble, handsome face, unmarred as yet by dissipation, while near them, with a happy, contented expres sion upon her fair, girlish face, sat his mother, fondly caressing the sunny hair of his little sister. “Culpeper Court House!” The voice of the conductor aroused the boy from his reverie. He had reached his destination, and, rising, he passed quietly out of the train, which resumed its journey as soon as it had landed him and his trunk. The night was intensely dark, and a fine mist was falliug, rendering the atmosphere damp and disagreeable. “Isdis you, iny sou!” exclaimed an old negro, stepping forward and clasping the boy’s soft white hand within his wrinkled black palm. “Yes, uncle Jerry, it is I. How are you?” “Lor’, honey, do old man am well nigh consumed wid grief. But I won’t keep you standing out here in dis cold. So run along and git in de carriage, while I tote de trunk to it” But Virgil knew the old negro was too old and feeble to carry the trunk alone, and despite the latter’s remonstrance, tho noble hearted boy assisted him to “tote” the bur den to the carriage. This done, the two mounted tho front seat of the vehicle and drove off. “Did father die suddenly, uncle Jerry!’ inquired Virgil, as tho carriage crossed the railroad, ..... “1 should say so Ho didn’t lib but a few minutes arter ho shot hisself.” “Shot himself? Uncle Jerry, did father commit suicide!'.’ “Certain he did. ifou re it was oiiway, THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1887. my sou. Mtf* mid Milton was setting out ’mud de smokehouse a crackin’ walnuts when on a sudden we looks and sees Mars Frank a standtn’ near ua, and of all misera ble-lookin’ creatures on God’s earf your father was just de most miserable-lookin’ man I ever seed; but he warn’t tipsy one bit. He was as sober as you or lis now. Pres ently he jerks up Milton and hugs and kisses him and do way de tears did fall from his eyes made me most think he had been converted.” “ ‘Jerry,’ says he, turning to me, ‘ain’t I de most infernal brut* dat fiber God let, live. With such a patient, loving wife as Mary, and such bright, beautiful boys as I have, what ’sense has I for goin’ on as I does. Though Mary never quarrels, though Virgil never speaks, at least out of de way to mo, but is all de time as ’spoctful and ’bedient to me as he used to be when I was a man, vet 1 knows neither one of dem has got any loye for me. How can dey have lovo or respect for me. De boy is devoted to his mother, and of course it must make his blood broil to see de trouble I give her. When a man has lived to lose de respect of his wife and chillei? de sooner de unloved wretch rids dem of his presence de better.' “He looks mighty curious like as he said dat, and den he leaves 11s and- goes off down the orchard paf, and de fust thing I hear was sumflnggo bang! After I got ober de shock, your little brother and me starts off in de ’rection of de sound, and thar under an old cherry tree we found poor Mars Frank sprawled on de giound wid de blood just pouring from him, and a pistol in his hand what he had shot hisself wid. 1 hollered at de top of my voice for my ole ’oman, and when she comes her and sne totes him to do house. Oh. my God, honey, poor Miss Mary was just wild with grief. A great big lump was in my throat. But I saw dere was no time to be lost, so off I goes for de doctor and brings him back wid me, but poor Mars Frank was dead—had died, your mother say, before I reached de barn on my way to de doctor's.” The account of his father’s tragic end completely overpowered Virgil, and, lean ing wearily back in his seat, the poor lioy wept bitterly. Old Jerry wgs devoted to the children of his former master, and as the carriage lamp threw its flickering rays over the noble young face beside him. and revealed the un happy expression of the countenance and the tears falling like rain down the cheeks, the old negro was deeply moved, and, not wishing to intrude further upon bis young companion's feelings, drove the remainder of the way in silence. It was past midnight when the carriage drew up before our hero’s home. “There is mother at the door,” he said, as he lea(>ed from the vehicle. At this moment Mbs. Paine—a sweet, sad facod lady—attired in a black dress and white apron—ran out on the porch and down the steps, and throwing her arms around Virgil’s neck, kissed him several times, while her lips murmured during the while: “My boy! My love! My darling!” “Dear mother,'’ he murmured with equal tenderness, and placing his strong young arm lovingly around the frail body, he led her to the sitting-room, where a huge log fire blazed and crackled upon the hearth. On a small table near the fire a delicate repast of bread, butter, ham and preserves was spread, while from a vessel on the fire arose the fragrant odor of tea. “Sit down, my dear, and eat your sup per,” said Mrs. Paine, when she had assist ed him off with his overcoat. He obeyed, and, after pouring out his tea, she drew up a chair Deside him, and, after a brief silence, during which she seemed struggling to command her voice sufficient ly to speak, said: “I presume uncle Jerry has told you all, Virgil.” “Yes, mother; it is terrible; but we must look to God in our sorrow. He is our only strength. Oh, mother, I have a dear friend at college, Roger Pean, of whom you have often heard me speak. He is of Quaker parentage, and so strong and unwavering is his faith in God. that scarcely anything seems to trouble him. I would give any thing to possess )iis faith.” "But, my son, perhaps Roger’s cross isn’t as heavy as yours. ” “Yes, mother; he has had to combat with poverty all his life; and, he says, it is only by the strictest economy and self-denial on the part of his parents "that he is at col lege.” “But unhappiness is not always the com panion of poverty, Virgil. I have heard you say your college-mate’s parents were both exemplary Christians. Consequently, the blackest of all shadows—the one caused by a father’s profligacy —has never dark ened Roger’s home. lie may suffer a good deal from the inconvenience of poverty, and his feelings may often he wounded by the cutting remark of some spoiled, low-bred child of wealth; but lam sure he has never tasted one-third of the sorrow my brave boy has. If he had passed through the trouble j - ou have, his faith would not be a*bit stronger, if as strong, as yours. Oh, Virgil, yon know not how nobly you have borne, and still are bearing, your cross. Mother is proud, unspeakably proud, of her boy! If it had not been for yon I could never have lived through all my trouble. You are my life, my strength, my hope!” And the fond mother drew her boy’s head down upon her breast, and smoothing back a stray lock of his soft, raven hair, toaderly kissed his beau tiful brow. When ho had finished his sup per she led him to the chamber where, dressed for the tomb, lay his father, with his hands clasped over his breast. Despite the change dissipation had wrought in his looks, he was still handsome, and in his early and unsullied manhood must have been strikingly so. Mrs. Paine paused at the foot of her hus band’s oorpse, and gazed in monrnful silence upon the rigid face. Virgil fell on bis knees beside the dead. Back over tho past memory led the youth to the days of his early childhood, when the arms, now stiffened by death, hud loved to steal around his neck, and tiie voice t hat would speak never more had delighted to boast of tho intellectual east of Ins boy’s countenance and predict what an illustrious man he would be. Oh, how he had loved his lather in those days! The boy forgot all the sins of his dead parent; he rememliered only what his father had been; and as his manly young heart went out in tenderness and forgiveness to the dead, ho leaned over and kissed the cold, pale brow of the corpse, while he murmured in a broken voice: “With all your sins, you are my father still. Although you have brought shame, misery and jioverty upon us—l Jove you—l ha ve never ceased to love you and to pity your weakness. My poor—poor father! When you were seized with remorse, how much better it would have lieeu to have gone to Jesus with your burdened soul! How willingly He would have forgiven all, and how freely we, too, would liave granted you forgiveness and. forgetting the black past, tried all in our jiower to have reclaimed you! ” With these words Virgil arose, and, draw ing his mother’s arm within his own, con ducted her to her chamber, after which he passed to his own on tho opposite side of the hall. Aunt Rachel, old Jerry’s wife, had re kindled the fire just before her goacg mas ter’s arrival, and it was now burning nicely, filling the room with a bright, cheerful light. The lamp on the mante! throw its beams upon tho bed in which lay Milton Paine, Virgil’s brother, a little fellow of 15 or 7 years. Virgil approached the bed, and, stooping, pressed his lips to the child’s. “God bless him!” murmured the youth. Virgil bad grown to regard his little brother with an almost idolatrous affection, and now, as he stood gazing upon the sleeper, who looked so pure and beautiful in his innocent rojiose, lie felt that life, bitter as it was, had not lost it* entire sweetness — surely he had something to live for. He knolt beside the bed, and, with one hand resting ui>onthe sunny hair of his little brother, prayed long and earnestly for God’s blessing upon the bereaved house hold. Greatly strengthened, he arose, and, hasti ly removing his clothes, thr.w himself on the bad beside Ml! ton. The little fellow opened his great blue eyes, and with the glad cry of ‘‘brother! brother!” threw his arms around Virgil’s neck, and in the loving, clinging uttitudeso characteristic of children, the lad was soon again wrapt in the sound, healthful sleep of boyhood. CHAPTER 11. Do not insult calamity; It is barbarous grossness to lay on The weight of scorn, where heavy misery Too much already weighs men's fortune's down. — Daniel. Although a mere boy—not yet IS years of age—Virgil Paine possessed as much fore thought and wisdom as most men, though he was as free from presumption and self importance as it was pessible for one to lie. His mother and little brother naturally looked to him as their protector now that his father was dead. Indeed, the burden of responsibility of the household rested upon his shoulders. The sale was over; Fern Springs had passed into the bauds of strangers; nearly two hundred dollars had been realized from the sale of dispensable furniture, and, with this amount, Virgil hoped to maintain the family until he could obtain employment of some kind. But where should he go to seek employment? There was no profitable work to get in the country. He would go to Richmond. He had read of hundreds of country boys who had gone to cities to secure a livelihood, and had years after ward, by industry and honesty, become rich and honored citizens. Why could he not be as successful? Was he not young and strong? Had he not a fair education? Surely he ought to succeed. At any rate, he would try. His mother heartily acquiesced in his plans, and, in accordance with her wish, he went, to Richmond and rented a house, pre paratory to their removal thither. “I have secured a snug little house, mother,” he said, as he and Mrs. Paino sat alone 011 the afternoon of his return from the capital city. “Of course it is not as large as this house, but it will suit us very well in our reduced circumstances. It has seven rooms—two comfortable sleeping apartments, a parlor, sitting room, dining room, kitchen, and a cozy little apartment for uncle Jerry and mammy. Gf course we could not part with the faithful old crea tures. It would not seem like home with out them. Besides, mother, you aro not ac customed to the drudgery of housokeep iug. ’< "I am glad you thought of uncle Jerry and niannny, my son, for I could not bear to part with them. They were born on the place and have passed all their lives in the service of the Paines, and it is our duty to divide our last crumb with them.” “Oh, mamma! mamma!” exclaimed Mil ton, bounding into the room, followed by his Newfoundland pet, Melancthon. “Dr. Douglas is in the hall, and there is a iady with him —a great tall lady, and she certain ly is pretty.” The boy had scarcely finished speaking, when aunt Rachel ushered the visitors—a gentleman and lady—into the room. The former was the pastor of the church of which Mrs. Paine and Virgil were mem bers. He was the Rev. Pike Douglas, J). D. His companion was a handsome young woman, elegantly attired in the height of fashion. “Mrs. Paine, this is my neice, Mrs. Bar ton Gresham, of Baltimore,” said tiie minis ter, with an air of condescension. Mrs. Paine, deeply hurt by his manner, arose and held out her hand to the lady as she acknowled the introduction. “This is my older son, Virgil, Mrs. Gresham, and this, my younger one. Mil ton,” said Mrs. Paine, performing the duty her pastor had failed to perform. The two boys bowed. “What a "beautiful child!” cried Mrs. Gresham, as her eyes fell upon Milton, who was-stamling beside Virgil, with one arm around the youth’s neck. “Uncle Pike, is he the child you wrote to me about? Oh, is not he lovely? He is a subject for any painter! AVliat would Raphael not give, were he living, to transfer that pure, an gelic expression to canvas. What beauti ful golden hair! And, oh, those eyes! Aren't they just heavenly! Come to me, my darling! Would you not like to be iny little boy?” “No, ma'am,” replied Milton, tossing his head defiantly. “Do you reckon I would leave my mamma or my brother to live with you. She is mighty mistaken, ain’t she brother ?” The lady laughed, and putting her hand under his chin, said: “ But suppose I were to give you every thing you wanted—an abundance of pretty playthings, pets, books, a nice little pony to ride, and everything nice to eat and to wear. Couldn’t ail these things induce you to be my little boy?” "If you were to give me everything in the world, you couldn’t get me to leave my mamma or my brother, ’cause I would cry mysplf to death.” “Mrs. Paine, you have doubtless divined the purpose of our visit,” said the minister. “My neice has been married several years, and having been blessed with no children, she and her husband are extremely anxious to adopt a pretty, interesting boy. The day after your husband’s death 1 wrote them a letter, saying I thought Milton would please them, and that perhaps you might bo in duced under the circumstances to yield your child to their guidance aud care, knowing as 3-011 do it will bo greatly to hi* advantage. It will perhaps pain you at first to part with your child, but I trust you will not sacrifice his welfare upon the altar of selfish love. My niece and her husband, being very wealthy, will rear the child in luxury, give him every educational advantage, and make him the sole heir of their fortune, which amounts to fully a half million. You will give the Isiy to them of course? You could not be so blind to his interests as to re fuse.” Such heartless language from one whom she had regarded with affection so astound ed Mrs. Paine that she was unable to frame a reply. Attributing her silence to inde cision, the minister continued: “Surely, madam, you will not, allow any foolish sentiments to interfere with his in terests. Ixiok at the life of toil and ha:xi ship that lies before you! Will your con science permit you to rear so bright and beautiful a boy as Milton in poverty, with the remembrance of his father’s disgrace ful life over haunting him, when there is of fered him a life of luxury in u distant city, where, amongst new associates and new surroundings, he will grow up oblivious o. the past!” “Dr. Douglas,” cried Virgil, his great brown eyes ablaze with indignation, “how dare you sjxiak to my mother in so harsh and unfeeling a manner! How dare you sneak so irreverently of a mother's love, and that in the face of the fact that you have from your pulpit compared that love in touching and beautiful language to the Re deemer’s love. Your heartless words have revealed to us your true character. As long as we were ab.e to contribute largely to your salary and the maintenance of the church there was no one more otisequiou* to ward us than you. But now that adversity has come upon us, it seems you have united with the rest of our so-called friends in the effort to grind us under heel. Your haughty, condescending manner to ward us for the last two or three years has not escaped niy oliservation. and especially noticeable has it been since my fathers death. It was your duty as a minister of the gospel to visit us in our afliictimi mid siicuk to us words of tenderness and sympa thy; but to-day, sir, is the first time you have entered this house since you officiated at my father’s funeral—two months ago. Ah, sir, I have found out. Toward the rich your manner is humble and courteous; to ward the poor your conduct is cold and haughty. Now that we belong to the latter class you seem to have no furtliur use for us. You have, no regard whatever for our feelings. What delight it affords you to entertain strangers with the story of my poor father’s weakness. If you possessed the spirit of Christ you would throw the veil of silence over the weakness of your fellow-mortals, or If you were compelled to speak of their shortcoming you would do it as kindly and gently as possible. How un feelingly you remind us of tho future, and iu your nuartlessaess you wish to take from ! us the 0:10 sunbeam left to brighten our life. Milton is my brothel', sir, and I love him dearer than Ido my own life. In him are centered all my hopes. Life without him would be unbearable; therefore, no power on earth could induce me to part with him. For him shall my prayers ascend night and day; for him I mean to toil; for him I mean to fight, and for him I mean to die, if need be!" Virgil’s scathing arraignment of her un cle’s inconsistencies did not in the least in cense Mrs. Gresham, as the reader might imagine; but, on tile contrary, the boy’s face and maimer impressed her deeply. “It is a rare thing to find a boy of your age with so noble and self-sacrificing a spirit as you manifest,"said the lady, grasp ing the youth’s baud. “Most young men when placed in your position are only too glad to get rid of their little brothers and sisters. As you aro an exception, however, I will not ask you to part with Milton, to whom you are so deeply attached, although I could almost idolize the dear little fellow. If I were to offer you assistance, you would doubtless feel hurt and think I did it in a condescending manner. There fore, I shall not wound your proud young spirit. But, Virgil, if greater misfortunes should come upon you; if you should fail to find friends or employment in Richmond, which place, I learn, you prouose to make your home; if sickness should befall you; or, if you should weary in your self-im posed task, remember you have a friend in Adelaide Gresham, who will render you any assistance in her power. My young friend, 1 feel a great interest in you. If you should fail to get into business in Richmond, come to Baltimore, and you shall have one of the best positions in my husband’s store, which is one of the largest in the city. Here is my card; here is my husband’s also.” Virgil took the two bits of pasteboard, and, after bowing and thanking her for her kind words, put the cards iu his vest pocket. Here Dr. Douglas, pale with rage, ap proached his niece, and, iu a voice that was far from pleasant, said: “Adelaide Gresham, what do you mean? After coming all the way from Baltimore, anil bringing me hare to intercede for you, are you silly enough to be thwarted in your purpose because of what that insolent up start has said? Mrs. Paine alone has the right to say whether you can have her child or not. V hat do you say, madam? {Shall my niece take the child?” "My sou has nobly defended me, sir,” re plied Mrs. Paine, coolly. “My boys are all I have in the world, and were I separated from either of them, my life would lie de void of all hojie or happiness.” “Then you refuse to part with the bov?” “I do, sir.” “Very well, madam.” Then turning to his niece he said coolly: “Come, Adelaide Gresham, if you can leave your charming youth. I have to funeralize Col. Barbour's baby at 4 o'clock, audit is already half-past three.” And with these words the D. D bowed coldly, and, with Mrs. Gresham, departed. “I just tell you what you can talk to him, can t you, brother?” exclaimed Milton, looking proudly up in Virgil’s face. “I fear it was wrong in me to sneak to Dr. Douglas us I did; but I couldn’t help it. He spoke so unfeelingly. You wouldn’t leave your brother, would you ?” “Leave my brother?” said the little fel low, rubbing his cheek against Virgil's. “No, indeed; that I wouldn’t—not for everybody and everything in the world, ’cause you are the best big brother in—in—the whole United States. You never speak cross to me or slap me, or call me a troublesome chap like that mean old Rufus Beardsley does his lit tle brother. You love to take me with you everywhere you go. and no matter how tired or sleepy you feel at night, you will tell me tales and talk to me till I go to sleep. ” A smile flitted over Mrs. Paine’s sad face as sho listened to the conversation between her boys—one so noble, so handsome in his young manhood; the other so innocent, so beautiful in his childhood. Although her wealth had been swept uway, the mother felt that, with two such boys, she was yet rich. “Mother, it is a beautiful afternoon,” said Virgil. “Would you not like to walk out with Milton and myself, and take a parting glimpse Of the dear old placet We shall have no time after to-day.” Yes: she would take a farewell look at the dear old place. Do we not take a parting glance at a loved face ere we turn away from it forever! Virgil wrapped a shawl around his moth er’s shoulders, and, gently drawing her arm within his own, led ner out. It was a clear, lovely afternoon in De cember, although a sadness pervaded every thing about them. As they passed the negro quarters, now closed and tenantless, Virgil fancied he could hear the negroes, as in days gone by,' singing and shouting around the cabin doors. As they paused now and then beside dn old, familiar spring, around which lay masses of dead fer ns and forest leaves, some incident of his happy past would recur to him with all the vividness of reality. Nearly a mile from the house, on the principal avenue, stood the family buryiiig ground, which was inclosed by a high brick wall. It was a lovely spot, with its mag nolia and arbor-vitte trees, its evergreen shrubbery, its earpetof ivy and periwinkle, and its quaint English tablets, on which was engraven below each name an appropriate passage from the Bible. Beside the newly-made grave of Mr. Paine rested the remains of Virgil’s sister, Beulah, who, in her beauty and purity, had fallen asleep ere the shadow of evil had fallen upon her home. “I am the resurrection and the life,” saith the Lord ; “he that boheveth in in 9, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whoso ever liveth and bclieveth in mo shall never die.” A despairing look came over Mrs. Paine’s face as she repeated these words, which were carved o i her daughter’s tomb. “On, Virgil,” she said, “those words wero so sweet to me wn -n Beulah died; but no comfort do they lioid for me now; for my poor Frank took his own life, and thus cut himself oil forever from t.ie mercy of God. It is so sal! I could bear with resignation my cross, however heavy, if at the end of life, I were sure of meeting your father in heaven.” Gently, lovingly, Virgil led his mother to aseat,und, with her head pillowed upon his breast, the heart-broken woman gave way to a violent fit of weeping. “Come, mother, let us return to the house,” said Virgil, at length. “It is grow ing late and chilly, and, besides, it only augments your grief to remain here. Come, Mdton.” The lad, who was strewing his father’s grave with ivy-leaves, immediately joined them, and then the trio wended their way homeward. tTO BE CONTINUED.] Lung Troubles and Wasting diseases can be cured, if properly treated in time, as shown by the following statement from D. C. Freeman, Sydney: “Having been a great sufferer from pulmonary at tacks, and gradually wasting away lor the past two years, jt affords me pleasure to testify that Scott's Emulsion of Cod Liver Oil with Lime and Sodu has given me great relief, and I cheerfully recommend it to all suffering in a similar way to myself. Iu addition, I would say that it is very pleas ant to take.” USDXRTA KKR. JOpfKTh™ FOX, XT m-o-ex-ballsreiE-, Musonio Temple, CORNER LIBERTY AND WHITAKER STB. KchUguw, ll'i Ahec orn. DRY GOODS. After the Fire! The undersigned respectfully begs to announce to his many friends and the public at large that we will RE-OPEN 01 BUSINESS AT THE OLD STAND 153 Broughton Street, -ON- Wednesday, October sth. WE PROPOSE TO SURPRISE THE PCBLIC IN SHOWING THEM The Handsomest, The Most Elegant, The Newest, The Most Stylish GOODS EVER SHOWN IN SAVANNAH OR ELSEWHERE, AND AT PRICES SO LOW As to enable every one almost to wear the BEST GOODS IN THE MARKET.- PLEASE REMEMBER We Have No Old Stock to Work Off. We respectfully ask the public to pay us a visit, whether they wish to purchase or not, and we will take pleasure in proving to them that we have not exaggerated. David Weisbein. CLOTHING. STAR CLOTHING HOUSE !™™ MENKEN & ABRAHAMS, 158 BROUGHTON STREET, Hie Leading dotliers, Hatters, Finite. THE LATEST FALL STYLES IN—— Corkscrews, Worsteds, Cheviots, Meltons, Cassimeres. Agents for the Celebrated Stich Hats. OUR CUSTOM DEPARTMENT has now a complete line of Samples for special orders. PARTIES IN THE COUNTRY can have goods expressed free of charge, wim privilege of returning if not suited. MENKEN & ABRAHAMS, New York Office, 650 Evoadway. BOOTS AND SHOES. ‘ DON ’T Forget that there is a NEW SHOE STORE IN TOWN. Fresh goods bought for cash, sold for cash, and those patronizing ine will receive the benefit of a cash business in LOW PRICES. I propose to KEEP a FIRST-CLASS SHOE STORE, and guarantee honest wear, cheap goods, polite an* prompt attention to all, whether they purchase from m:e or not. When I sell you a pair of Shoes, a Club or a Tourist Bag, and they do not suit, ! ask you to please bring them BACK and get satisfied. THE PLACE. S. COHEN, Fine Boots and Shoes. Club and Tourist’ Bags, 139 1-2 Broughton Street, opposite Silva’s, . ; SASH, DOORS, BLINDS, ETC. f I’— .id.m SAVANNAH, GA. T ' LUMBER. CYPRESS, OAK, POPLAR, YELLOW PINE. ASH. WALNU Manufacturers of sash, doors, bunds, mouldings of mi kinds ana description CASINOS and TRIMMINGS for ail clMWes of dwellings PEWS and F sv ENDS of our own design ami manufacture, T UN ED and SCROLL BALUSTERS, ASH HANDLES for Cotton Hooks, CEILING, FLOORING, WAINSCOTTINO, SHINGLES. Warehouse and Up-Town Office: West Broad and Broughton Sts, Factory and Mills: Adjoining Ocean Steamship Co.’s Wharves 5