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TIMS, s’ fEB iSmill IN ADVANCE. SECOND VC Alt. NO. M....\VH01,K RO.T3. & sbmemm imiM mw&L m Mmm fcj u'smmM, im &m hb otmus, &m to sim otmw. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. STANZAS. Here, where great oaks overshadow. In the well-known walks she roved, Here we laid the little maiden, Whom our heai ts so well have loTcd. Silent waving, the great brunches Make a shelter for the form, Which our love had vainly striven Xo secure against the storm. Oh ! how peaceful—Oh! how quiet, Sacred still, her little home, Where the squirrel loves to riot, And the rabbit loves to roam ; With the summer do we leave her, With the autumn we'll return ; Hut with her wc lost our summer, And with autumn fitly monrn. Dctilla, S. C. PARISH SAXON. u j , asiß©!£aiaLifl®s{B* For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. WOMAN k WOMAN’S LORD. BY A LADY OF GEORGIA. CHAPTER VI. Time flies swiftly to the happy and to the young. He steps lightly along their pathway, when it is strewn with flowers, .and lingers not long when it is shadowed Iwiih clouds of gloom and sorrow. Hope, |io them, is ever the companion of Time.— [Mie wreathes him with garlands of the [choicest and sweetest flowers, and flies with him, joy beaming from her eye. They gaze upon the bright picture, and forget that Time will, ere long, be stripped of his garlands, and that Hope will exchange her [beaming smile for a sad and pensive gaze. Time had flown rapidly to Charles and • lenevra Elliston. Genevra had finished her education with the Sisters of Charity, and had returned like a happy bird to her Inative clime. No heart was more joyous [than her own. She had never known a [moment of sorrow since the loss of her [mother, and her guardian spirit had taught [her, that perhaps that mother was a tninis- I 1 ring spirit to her children, while they should remain on earth, and was only ele ► ated before them, to a higher existence. I “Let this idea lead you to cultivate eve |y virtue, my Genevra,” said Sister Made leine. Indeed, Sister Madeleine was like It shield around her lovely daughter. She protected her from the too strict rules of Be establishment—from the narrow-mind ld prejudices and superstitions of the weak ■Hers, and from the prying eyes of the Iriests. The ever-watchful eye of an a- Bakened suspicion was around them; and Bn over-ruling Providence guarded them Bom evil, Why was it that Sister Made- Bine was so independent among the Sis- Brs of Charity 1 She had come among Bern like a mysterious visitant, invested Bith wonderful endowments. The saint- Borshippers almost looked upon her as a Bft sent from Heaven for the especial ben fiit of their institution. Her influence was B 1 great—her life so pure and holy—her Banner so commanding and dignified—that ■>e seemed, instead of being plastic in the Bands of others, to be the presiding spirit |f the establishment. All arrangements Bare made in reference to Sister Made- B'ne; and when the sad fate of the Home Baced Genevra under her care, there was objection made to her taking entire Barge of her education. ■ < harles Elliston has passed with honor ■ the Junior Class in Franklin College, ■G now the November vacation arrives. His heart throbs with delight at the pros- H< t ol meeting his sister in Savannah, and ■j°ying, in her society, his liberty from ■’ ! .v and her release from school. He if he shall find her the same love s’ loving and confiding Genevra as ever. H rTlf ’ passed on, and we see them in Sa ■aiiuh. enjoying with delight one of the seasons the place had ever known. Balls, •parties, pleasure rides, and the thea tre, alternately claim their time. The shades of Bonaventure, where the majes tic oaks throw their arms abroad as if to protect the spot from intrusion, always hal lowed their feelings with the memory of her who had passed away from them. Some call this a cold, callous and un feeling world. Those who feel this, could never have stopped a moment to view the crumbling tokens of the past, or have -paused to meditate on the frail tenure we all hold to the present. We look upon the sad memorials of the past, where happy hearts and joyous spirits once sported, and ! feel that as they are, we shall be: and j there is nothing that sheds over the spirits . a sadder influence than the ruins of the old I family-seat, and the sombre shade of the j old oaks at Bonaventure. Then, to change the scene, there were the gay rides taken in “Inver’s Lane,” the companj constituted the charm. Here was felt the influence of mind, forced on ward by all the effervescence of mirthful spirits. At Bonaventure was felt the in fluence of Nature—modifying and soften ing these exuberant feelings, and leading them to contemplate the great first cause, j and the end of all things. Charles had found Genevra all that he j desired —lovely, loving and confiding.— ; With how much delight would he hold her off at arm's length—examine her beautiful face and figure with a criticising eye —then I with all the ardor of a brother’s love, fold ! her in his arms, and say, that in external charms, she was all he could desire. ,s But I was afraid, my dear sister, that those Sisters of Charity would make your heart as cold and passive as their own; j and particularly when I heard you insisted 1 to have Sister Madeleine come out with j you, I began to doubt your sanity on the subject of society.” “If you thought I should not love the gay world enough,” said Genevra, “ I think you have had full proof to the contrary, 1 i my dear brother.” “Yes,” said Charles, “you have been one of the gayest little butterflies of the season. I begin to think the Sisters of Charity have a more worldly influence than I had supposed.” . “ Your odious comparison aside,” said | Genevra, giving him a slight tap on the cheek with her thimble, “ the real truth of the matter is, that Sister Madeleine has to | nte been a host within herself.” ‘ “ What, does Sister Madeleine waltz and i dance polkas, as well as excel in music | and drawing, and all the etceteras I see you exhibit daily, even down to the delicate j vine I see you tracing on that muslin col ! lar ?” said Charles. “Oh, no,” said Genevra; “she neither ! waltzes nor dances polkas.” And vott might have heard her merry laugh resound through several rooms of the “ Pulaski,” | at the strange idea. | “ She taught me everything but waltzing land dancing,” continued she; “but that ! was taught me by a gentleman.” “ Indeed,” said Charles, “I thought that j gentlemen were entirely prohibited, unless i they came in the garb of priesthood. No I wonder that you like Sister Madeleine so I f j well, if she is so much like the rest of the world, as to allow you to take dancing lessons from a gentleman.” “ Sister Madeleine said she was educa ting me for my father and for society—not for a convent, or for herself.” said Genev ra ; “and this man came with written re commendations from my father.” “ And are you very sure, my dear sister, that you never thought him either a priest or a gentleman in disguise ?” said Charles. “1 confess, sometimes I thought his speaking eyes and ample forehead told a different tale from his profession,” said (lenevra; “but his beard and moustache make me shudder even to think of them. | 1 never saw him, without thinking of ! “ Beauty and the Beast.” “Ah, leave romance to the softer sex, I say,” said Charles. “Here is my little sister, whose beauty has been guarded so 1 mysteriously from all eyes, has even fell | its influence through the cracks of her j cell.” “ Well, it was not like a ray of light, I assure you, my dear brother; for,although there was sunshine above, and the most brilliant orbs imaginable to reflect it, yet there were clouds below, which obscured j the light and the romance together.” “I am glad to hear that,” said Charles, “ for you know the young ladies of Savan nah have a brilliant conquest in store for . one of them. We are to dine at the Judge’s to-day, in company with the lion, Mr. Dti ’ pont.” I “ Indeed !” said Genevra, “ishoto be there 1” “ Yes,” said Charles, “ so I was told, as a great additional charm to the party-; so 1 will leave the charm with you, my dear sister, to aid you in your preparations for the occasion.” Then came an interval of quiet—reflec tion, that bridge almost divine, connecting earth and heaven, gave pleasant occupa tion to her thoughts. They passed, one after another, in quick succession over the heaven-formed fabric ; but there were none so sad as to weigh it down upon her happy spirit. They were at first distinct, and i dwelt upon her father engaged in the busi ’ ness of life—her brother and herself, ex tracting the honey-dew of enjoyment from every flower—her gratitude and love to those friends who had received her with a true Southern welcome to their hearts and their firesides. Then more indistinct ly, but with a feeling of calm repose, her I thoughts lingered around her who had ! cherished and loved her when she was sol itary and wretched. Her eyes filled with j tears, as she remembered seeing her that morning, engaged in an act of benevolence —for to the good, the goodness of others gives rise to*he lenderest emotions. This is the chain of sympathy, and the earthly foundation of virtue and that true charity which seeks the good of others. More vague and indistinct still, even like shad ows they passed and re-passed through her mind. There was one vivid remembrance of her school-days; and while attending to Iter toilet, she wondered more than once if she should ever meet among men such eyes as she had once seen. At the Judge’s they had a brilliant par- j ty. Taste and elegance, combined with an inexpressible air of comfort, pervaded all the arrangements. The viands were ex quisite; the wines were of the choicest kinds. Above all, there were sparkling minds, that rivalled the sparkling cham pagne, and wit that filled the cup of social joy to overflowing. But where was the lion of the day, Mr. Dupont ? He stands aloof from the young ladies, and only with his flashing eyes and courteous hows, pays homage to their presence. At the table, he passes the social glass, and gives a toast “to the ladies of Georgia, who rule by beauty, and rule by the law.” “We drink to the powerof beauty, sir,” said the Judge, bowing in the blandest manner to the ladies; “ but we feel dispos ed to question the last part of your toast.” i “ I will only refer you to the case deci ded before you this morning, sir, to prove that your ladies rule by law, as well as by I beauty.” “In that case, the law has only done her ! justice,'’ said the Judge. “ 1 admit the law has only done her jus tice, said Mr. Dupont, “but would it have done so, without her appeal ?” “No. I suppose not,” said the Judge. , “Then your ladies are very powerful,” ’ said Mr. Dupont, “ for they can wake up j the terrors of the law against evil-doing husbands whenever they please.” “Excuse me, sir,” said the Judge, “ but ■ you mistake the character of our laws, and ;of our ladies. lam sorry to say that we have no law, apart from marriage settle ments, to protect the domestic rights of wo man in our State.” “Why should you desire anything bet ter than this, that enables trustees to claim property and retain it in the State for the 1 use of the original owner, the wife ?” said Mr. Dupont. “ Because the benefits arc not general enough. It does not protect our poor wo men who have no marriage settlements: neither does it protect those rich ones, who are led away by persuasions, or a false idea of propriety. Although there is a very strong protection under certain cir cumstances in marriage settlements, yrt we are forced to admit, that to the design ing fortune-hunter and the idle mismanager, they ofler very little opposition.” “ I confess, sir, I am a stranger to your 1 domestic polity,” said Mr. Dupont, “ but I I should suppose otherwise, if such cases as the one I witnessed this morning, were of ’ often recurrence.” “ It is in that, sir,” said the Judge, “that you have mistaken the character of ottrla -1 dies. They too often forget the true inter ests of their families, in either an impul j sive desire to please their husbands, or a dread of the opinion of the world. The lady whose case you have mentioned, had resigned nearly all of her property : and at ’ last, when she found the last remnant about to he sacrificed, she entreated the trustees of her marriage settlement to Interfere in her behalf. The suit you witnessed was between the trustees and the gentleman. — The unpleasant feelings connected with ! such sacrifices of property, as well as the more unpleasant exhibitions of them to the public eye, would all, in my opinion, be obviated by the passage of the 1 Woman's Bill.’ Besides this, sir, fortune-hunters would he more seldom seen in our State — ! for, knowing the law, young men would j feel greater inducements to personal exer- J lion in early life, and thus form habits of j industry. The prejudice existing with I man) r against marriage settlements, as well j as the secret opposition which is made in j many families against their influence, would then find no ground for action.” And thus the conversation ended, so far as we are concerned. The ladies had retired to tile drawing room, and were engaged in making a thou sand speculations about the handsome strati-, ger. One said she heard that he was a no-1 bleman in disguise ; another said she heard j he possessed a large coffee plantation in ! Cuba, and was immensely wealthy : ano- j tiler said she had “ heard h<* was a for- j tune-hunter. What do you think of him, i ■ J Miss Elliston ?” said she. Genevra, who had been indulging in a mo- i mcniary dream, said, thoughtfully, “I won der if he dances.” “ Well, perhaps you may find that out at the next ball you attend,” replied the young lady. “1 am sure I cannot tell.” And she turned off with a contemptuous! slung, as much as to sav, “ You treated : my question very cavalierly,” or “ I expect! you are in love.” The moments pass swiftly, and the strati-. ger enters. To Genevra, I suppose, he j must he the interesting stranger, for lie liasj absorbed her attention in a recess of the I room. He is jriving her a glowing descrip- j tion of the tropical Islands—the orange and lemon groves, that tttver fail to yield their [ golden harvest —the acacia hedges, that 1 shed their perfume in the air, without re-J gard to seasons —the luscious fruits that \ hang ready for the willing hand—above | all, the untiring imagination, the never- \ wearied mind, that lives in continual en joyment till obliged to yield itself to its Creator. She listens with wrapt attention, and looks with a fascinated gaze into his speaking eyes. He rose to depart, but not until he had engaged to accompany her party to the theatre that evening. Event ful hour, which is to develope the true character of one, and hasten on with rapid j strides the destiny of another. The scene changes, and a solitary walk- 1 er passes down Bull street. He passes by j familiar places, but he heeds them not. He j might even he brushed by an acquaintance j without heeding him, so intent is he on his j plans. He enters Monument Square, and j passes on. Is he going to his lodgings at; the City Hotel, or is he going to “Our; House,” to lounge over the latest news?! No —he is in search of a poor sister—not i a Sister of Charity, but one who lives on charity. Strange coincidences often occur, i Who will doubt the wheel within a wheel j in human events, who knows anything of • these romances it? real life. He stops at a lane—draws his coat higher up— down his hat, and enters. Occasionally a i gleam from a window crosses the narrow street, and is reflected on the opposite house or wall. Then he steps quickly, and en ters the deep shadows. At last he knocks j at a door and enters. The front opens on ! the market-place, in a little front shop; the back part is occupied by a woman and her j little son. “It is well you have come, Arthur.” said the woman, “ for-it you had not kept your promise, I should have gone in search of you.” “ Then you would have ruined both our prospects, sweet Angelina, for you know 1 your fortune depends on mine,” said Du pont. lf so, I wish you would give me mine then, for while you are enjoying every thing good, I am as poor as poverty can make me,” said Angelina. “ You must live on the prospect at pres ent, till I can make a fortune for us both,” said Dupont. “ You have been telling me that for the last three years, brother mine,” said Ange lina : “but excepting that 1 see you en joying society and fine friends, I have seen nothing of it yet.” “ Patience, woman—you will soon see that 1 have not planned and looked for ward for years in vain,” said Dupont.— “The fruit hangs ready to be plucked, and you shall share. Where is little Antonio ?” “Sister Madeline teaches him music, besides reading and spelling, and he has not yet returned home,” said Angelina. “Who is this Sister Madeleine ?” said Dupont. x “ She is an angel of mercy, sent from across the water to give me brea I,” said Angelina. “ She is a fiend,” said Dupont, whose countenance became as black as night, “sent to thwart my fortune, and to scatter yours to the winds of Heaven.” “ Do you know Iter, Arthur ?’’ said An gelina, with an astonished countenance, and a voice rather raised. Just then, a sweet young voice was heat'd, singing the “ Evening Song to the Virgin,” and as the “Ave Santissima” fell upon the ear, the latch was turned, and Sister Madeleine entered, accompanied by Antonio. Dupont put his linger to his lips with an expressive gesture, and left by the opposite door; but the iiatpe had vaguely sounded on the ear of the Sister, and for an instant she involuntarily turned her eyes on the retreating figure. CHAPTER VII. Time flies swiftly to the happy and to the young. Dupont was happy—happy in the assurance of success—happy in the triumph of those passions and desires of his nature, which he had always cherished with tenderness and cultivated with suc cess. He was happy also in the con sciousness of being beloved. But why was this ! Not because he either felt, or desired to lie, worthy the love of a pure soul, but he knew by that token he should possess unbounded power. If I could whis per a tale in vour ear, gentle reader, and you could hear it, you would know that the cool calculation of years had just reach ed the point of consummation. The web had been woven in his own mind, and now but we will not anticipate. Gen evra was young, and she was happy. Time, with his golden hours, flew by, and Hope wreathed him with roses and with smiles. She was happy in her devo tion—she was happy in her pure and guile less mind—she was happy also in the be lief that those speaking eyes spoke love. Charles had but one month left of holiday, and it was concluded they should devote that time to pleasure—to visiting their isl and-borne, and then extending their visit further south, to the land of flowers. Sis ter Madeleine was not forgotten by Genev ra, but her image was not so continually present with her. Her last visit to the Convent was the morning of her departure, when her eyes spoke the language of her heart, and beamed forth nothing but joy and gladness. She brought with her, as an offering, a cluster of rare exotics. Du pont had brought them to her a few mo ments before she was to leave on her visit, though these moments had been lengthen ed to minutes, and the minutes to a good half-hour. “I have found, Sister Madeleine, some thing as sweet and lovely in the heart, as these flowers arc in Nature,” said Genevra. “ And what is that, my dear girl ?” said Sister Madeleine. Genevra threw her arms around her neck, her beautiful face suffused in blushes, and whispered low—“ Love.” “ Love, human love, has thorns; beware, my child, they do not pierce your heart.— But tell me how you have made this dis ! covcry.” With many blushes, and many enthusi astic expressions of admiration, she told Sister Madeleine of her meeting with Mr. Dupont—of his perfect devotion to her 1 since their first meeting—of the influence she was conscious he had ever exerted over iter, from the first moment she had seen i him ; and at last, she told her that she had given him her heart, and would give him her hand as soon as she had her father's sanction. “ I tremble for your happiness, my dear girl. Beware that you are not led away by impulse,” said Sister Madeleine. “ It is a delightful impulse that impresses I me with the idea that Dupont is as perfect jin nature as he is in appearance. Besides, | Sister, he is quite old enough to be my | guide. He looks as if he had reached the ; very summit of manhood,” said Genevra ; ; and she drew herself proudly up to her full height, and added—“ Yes, as long as Ar : thur Dupont is mine, 1 shall be supremely j happy.” “Arthur,” said the Sister, in a half so i liloqttizing tone, “Arthur. I have heard | that name twice in the last few days;” and ! her mind reverted to the little room near Market Square, and the tall and fine-look ing stranger who passed out as she enter ; ed. Then, as if a light had burst upon her, | she said— j “ Genevra, lam convinced he has a poor j sister in this city. If he is worthy, why | does he let Iter suffer ?” “ I think you are mistaken,” said Gene vra. “for he says ho has no relations in | this country; but if he has, she shall be ’ my sister.” Then ensued a long conversation, in which Sister Madeleine told her about An gelina and her little son Antonio. Gene vra’s face wore a thoughtful expression, amj her eyes were suffused with tears of sympathy. She told Sister Madeleine to give her all the aid she could, from a well-1 filled purse left in her charge. She told her, also, that she thought she would be j married a few days after bet return from the South, when she would have a sister's right to claim her, or, at any rate, to serve her. Then was the farewell, and the pray er for her safety offered by Sister Made leine. With pleasure would I accompany the party to the land of flowers, and depict to | my readers the glowing eloquence of Du-. pont, as he told the Spanish legends, or the Indian stories, coiniested with the early , settlement of that country. I would speak ! of the influence he acquired over Mr. El-j liston—the confidence he secured from j Charles—the perfect and entire devotioji , he had fixed in Genevra’s mind. I would | like, also, to take my readers through or- ’ angc groves, and through avenues of ihc , fragrant laurel-rose, meeting their branches i overhead, and shedding their perfume on ! the soft, bland air of that Southern clime. I l would like, also, to take them up the St.; Johns on a pleasure excursion, and on the ‘ lakes of that favored region, where they i wonld see themselves mirrored to life on ! the glassy surface, and see the heavens 1 reflected from the far depths. But this! must not he. Love, pleasure and romance i are delightful in the enjoyment; but as | portions of memory, they lose their impor tance when contrasted with the reverse— that sa l change which too often comes over those led away by impulse, or those actuated by interest. “ Mr. and Mrs. Dupont have arrived in Savannah,” was the news through all the j fashionable circles. They had been mar ried at the cottage on the Island, which was to be their future home; they had been con gratulated by their friends; their depend ents had “wished them much joy;” and Genevra had introduced him to, and renew ed her own acquaintance with, all the scenes and associations of her early youth. They had taken rooms in Savannah for the rest of the gay season, and many scenes j there were of varied interest; but we have no time to linger with them, and will only describe one, which is intimately connect-1 ! ed with the denouement of our tale. Genevra's first thought, when she re- j turned to Savannah, was to relieve the dis tressed Angelina, and if she was indeed the sister of Arthur, to adopt her at once into the family circle. She went in her carriage for Sister Madeleine, just as the j sun was sinking beneath the horizon.— j They drove to Market Square, and then down a street leading to the Bay. They alighted at a lane, and walked a few paces to a small house. As they entered, Ange lina and Antonio were eating their frugal supper. As her eye rested on Sister Mad eleine, who entered first, she said, “Enter, sister—friend of the unfortunate. You are always welcome.” “I have brought a lady to sec you, An : gelina, who thinks she may be of service ’ . . . to you,” said Sister Madeleine. Genevra, who seemed ready to burst with her contending emotions, exclaimed, with feeling— “ Yes. I have hear ! much of you, and I have come to relieve you—to take you ! away front this plaoe, and give you n home.” “ A home, lady ? I never had a home, | since I was young as you. Tlte ocean—j the sea-girt isle -the miserable room like J this has been the wanderer’s home,” said Angelina. “ You shall wander no more, Angelina. Arthur and I will be your brother and sis | ter,” said Genevra. “Arthur and I? Who aro you 1 ?” she , said with an imperious tone. “ And what I Arthur do you mean ?” I “I am Mrs. Dupont,” said Genevra, with . an earnest lone, as if she thought and hojted j it would be a pleasant surprise, “ and Ar ; thur is my husband.” “ Arthur Dupont your husband said Angelina, with a wild and frantic energy, “Arc you rich, woman 1” Just then, Dupont entered the room in J haste, with surprise and rage depicted on his countenance. Genevra looked like an s angel of mercy, unconscious of the evil ! passions of the world, yet deeply wounded at the different turn the affair had taken to iwhat she had fondly anticipated. Sister Madeleine rose up in the majesty of her offended pride, and looked indignantly at Dupont, for she recognized in him that Ar thur who had given her the first and last lesson in worldly policy she had ever re ’ ccived. lie gave his arm to Genevra, and ! quickly conducted her, without saying a ’ word, to the carriage, He then whispered i that he would soon follow her, and return ed to the house. There he encountered Sister Madeleine, who said to him— “ Mysterious and evil-minded man! what are your designs in all this? - ’ “ To he revenged on you. mailam, and to gratify rny desire for wealth, powur and influence. Remember what I told you— ‘that l would be your destiny.’ Dare to say one word, or make one approach to, my wife, and I will prove to you my pow er.” “ You have, indeed, revenged yourself,' 1 said Sistet Madeleine; “but remember, the same God who saved me from your bass designs, may punish you, and that speedi ly.” Thus saying, she loft the room, feef ing that Genevra's happiness was forever wrecked. Angelina was alternately wild and pas sive, when first left alone with Ait-hur, hut she soon became calm and conscious of her own situation. “Oh, Arthur, ■’ she said, “send rta back to my far home. Let me not see her again —so beautiful -so rich ! Let me not see you again, so happy I” “Call yonr brother here, Angelina,” said Dupont. “My brother!” said Angelina, and laugh ed in derision at the sound. “ Did you not say 1 must call the fruiterer my husband ?” Antonio, her brother, entered. Dupont proved that he hail made his fortune, by giving them thousands to settle ir> their native home, on a promise from them that they would seek him no more. Thus ends our intercourse with Angelina and the An tonios: but could the ocean, the sea-girt islp, and the miserable hovels, speak, what romances could they not tell to those who love them. Dupont had yet a task to fulfil, which his whole soul was bent upon; that was, to do away with all impression on his wife’s mind of any wrong in himself, and thus re-establish that perfect confidence in her mind again. When he returned home, Genevra met him at the room-door, and said— “Oh, Dupont, why will hot your sister let me love her 1 Why will you not com pel her to let us treat her as a sister 1” “Genevra, my sister is a woman of im perious will. She left her fallter’s house with a vagabond, whom she clings to, and follows over the world. This is the rea son why I have not recognized her. But how did you know anything of her?” said Dupont. “Sister Madeleine told me she suspected tire relationship, and 1 thought I would give yon an agreeable surprise, by bring ing her and the little Antonio home,” said Genevra. “This Sister Madeleine is forever in my way,” said Dupont. . “ Sister Madeleine in your waiy ?” said Genevra. “That is too ridiculous a charge to bring against one who lias been shut up in a convent all her life.” “1 knew her before she went into a convent,” said Dupont, “ and if I were to tell you who and what she is, you would be surprised at the strange tale. Besides, when 1 first saw my Genevra, I could scarcely look at her, without Sister Made leine's piercing eyes being fixed upon me.'* “When you first saw me,” said Gents vra, “1 am sure Sister Madeleine was not there.’.’ “ I assure you that she was,” said Du pont. “and if you tire still a skeptic, t wilt I prove it to you.” lie went to his trunk, took out a salsa | heard and moustache, and put it on ; tlieiv I turned, and taking Genevra, who was cou j founded by the metamorphosis, went whirl- I ing and waltzing with her around the room, repeating the instructions of a dancing. | master. “Do you believe tne now, sweet wife ?” said Dupont, imprinting a kiss upon her up-turned cheek, as she lay nearly ex hausted in his arms. “Oil, Dupont, T must believe all you sa\\ for the world is nothing tome without you, my husband.” Mr. and Mrs. Dupont were seen that i evening surrounded by company, and they ; were the gayest of the gay. No eye there had witnessed the scenes they had passed through so recently. No eye there could see into the depths of that heart, that was only happy in the success of his deep-laid schemes. He had well said that he wish ed to be revenged. Revenge, the dire oil spring of an uncontrolled temper, is never satisfied till it destroys its object. Dupont had lived too long for himself, to begirt lo live now for others. But let ns leave him to thu workings of his own will, and turn for a time to more pleasant and more recent events. [To bo continued J EI'IOR A M . jpiiil died in bed—strange fate for ono mi ev M ’ • Perhnps ! —but that don’t c ave bim f Oni the de vil !