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A VIGIL.
®* *»WTOJ> CUkSXVtSt, STXDNAN.
E walk the lane'* dim hollow,—
Past is the twilight hour,
Bnt stealthy shadows follow
And Night withholds her power,
Bor somewhere fn the eastern sky
The shrouded moon is high.
Dews from the wild rose drip unheard,—
Their unforgotten soent
With that of woods and grasses blent;
No muffled flight of bird,
No whispering voice, my footfall stops;
2i© hre©®« aaiiditHJ poplar-top*
The smallest leaf has stirred.
Yet round me, here and there,
A little flattering wind
Plays now,—these senses have divined
A breath across my hair,—
A toneh,—thaton my forehead lies.
And puhsses long
These, lips so mate of song,
And now, with kisses cool, my half-shuteyes.
This night 1 Ob, what is here 1
i "What viewless aura clings
V So fitfully, ao near,
On this returning even-tide
When Memory will not be denied
Unfettered wjngi ?
My arms reach out,—in vain,—
They fold the air:
And yet—that wandering breath again t
ioo vague to make her phantom plain,
Too tender for despair.
—Jdarch Century.
Tbe Two -Admits.
“H’m ! H’m 1 Upon my word! Just
what might have been expeoted! Sel¬
fish 1 Heartless I Cruel!”
Not all at onoe, as written down, but
popping out at brief intervals, sharply
wad suddenly as pistol shots, the above
"ejaculations fell from the lips of Mrs.
Carpenter Wainwright, as she sat beside
lengthy an open-grate fire, reading a letter. A
letter, too, closely written upon
four large pages of paper. After she
folded it, she said more sharply than
• ever:
“Well, thank goodness her mother is
“*5KK fSL silence upon the
the woman who was no relation of hers,
touched Mrs. Wainwright deeply. Her
brow was clouded, and, as she mused,
angry flashes sprang more than onoe
into her large, dark eyes. Upon all
sides of her were evidenoee of wealth,
and her own dress, though a morning
negligee; was eostly and in exquisite
taste. She was not young—past sev¬
enty—yet she oarried her tall figure
erectly still, and her eyes were brilliant
as those of youth.
While she sat in profound thought
there was a tap upon the door, followed
by the entrance of a young girl, just
touching eighteen, with a fair, sweet
face, lighted by eyes as dark as Mrs.
Wainwright’s own.
“Aunt Cora,” she said, brightly,
"shall I read to you now ?”
The old lady looked into the sweet
face with a keen glance, as if question¬
ing herself somewhat about the girl •
then she said, abruptly:
“I have had a letter from Mrs. Pope,
this morning.”
“With news from Mill Village ?” the
girl asked, a look of pleasure on her
fa06.
“You are very fond ol Mill Village ?”
“No; I like the city much better.
Still, there are some people in Mill
Village I am fond of.”
“Theoda West?”
The girl hesitated; then, lifting hei
bright eyes, she said, frankly:
“I love Aunt Mary, but I don’t think
that I am very fond of Theoda. She is
very handsome, very accomplished, and
too fond of patronizing me. ”
f‘Ah I”
“Yon see, she has been pupil teacher
at the seminary, and learned all the ex¬
tra branches to teach again.”
“While you were making dresses ?”
“Yes. Aunt Mary let me choose, and
I knew I could make a living at dress¬
making, while scholars were doubtful,
so ■* near the seminary.”
“Your Aunt Mary was very kind to
,o„r
“Very! She took me when poor
mamma died, ten years ago. She oonld
not give me luxury and pleasure as yon
have done in the last year, bnt she never
made any difference between Theoda
and myseif.”
"H’m I yes. She is yonr mother’s
sister, I am yonr father’s. 8he gave
yon a share in the house of oare and
poverty. I have taken you to this one
and will not forget you in my will”
The girl’s face flushed under the sar¬
castic emphasis of the words.
“I never weighed one obligation
against the other, Aunt Cora,” she said,
quietly; •"you have been very, very kind
to me.”
‘ Tour Aunt Mary is an invalid, too ?’
“She is in consumption. We have
feared every winter would be the last.”
X #;V
-frW
•SPftlNG PLACE. GEORGIA. T SDAY, APRIL 23. 1885.
fc
ft
“H’m 1 Well, my news is that your
loving cousin, Theoda, has eloped with
the Qerman teacher of the seminary who
lias taken a situation In Philadelphia.”
The fair face grew deathly pale, and
an expression of positive horror looked
oat from the soft, dark eyes. There
wae a pause of silence that was paiufnl
Then Estelle Mason spoke in a choked
voice:
“I must go to Aunt Sfary.” *
“Go to her 1 Nonsense, child. What
claim has she on yon?”
“The claim of gratitude.’’
“But what can you do? Ton have no
money.”
“loan work.”
“Have I no claim ?”
“Only seoond to hers. Yon have been
very good to me. But you have so
many relatives that wouldi be glad to
come and. fill my place. You are strong
and well, with money lor every comfort
She is feeble, sick and poor. Oh, how
could Theoda desert- her? How could
she?”
“Do yon* know who this German
teacher, James Kent, is V’
“No.”
“He is my husband’s nephew. Not
mine; but all my wealth came from my
husband, and James Kent, knowing me
to be a just woman, expeots a handsome
legacy when I die. Probably when he
told Theoda he would be a rioh man
some day, he did not tell the name oi
the annt who had the money to leave.”
“I never saw him. He came to the
seminary after I came here.”
4 'Exactly I He displeased me 1 I do
not keep people near tne who displease
me.”
Again that cutting emphasis of tone.
Estelle did not answer, and Mis. Wain¬
wright spoke again.
“I expeot, therefore, that you will
abandon this romantic scheme of return¬
ing to Mill Village. There are asylums
where your aunt can be reoeived.”
WOrk ior her ’”
.
^ P**'
*** ■ ■
“* ir.„ - *>u will let , me
g
„ T pret nd - to . contro1 . , your
movements,” was the reply, in a cold
voice. “When I took you from a life of
poverty and toil, to take yonr plaoe
here as my niece and heiress, I expeoted
to have a loving, grateful companion.
Since I have been mistaken, you can
leave me whenever you desire it. Only
I wish it understood that you choose be¬
tween your Aunt Mary and myself,
finally.”
Estelle’s eyes were full of tears, but
she controlled her voioe, by a strong
effort, to say:
“I am not ungrateful, Annt Cora,
though I never considered myself your
heiress. I thank you from my heart,
and if you were poor and sick you would
not find me ungrateful. Bnt my duty
seemB so clear to me that I cannot hes
itate. Even at the price of yonr dis¬
pleasure, I must go. Bnt,” she added,
timidly, “I hope you will forgive me.’ 5
“Oh, I shall not qnarrel with you,
child. Yon may go, certainly. Only
do not flatter yourself with the idea that
yon oan return here when you tire of
yonr sentimental duties. There, goto
your own room, and give me your de¬
cision at dinner. Not a word now.”
So dismissed, Estelle went slowly to
the room where every adornment spoke
of her aunt’s care fear her. She was
young and had endured poverty for
many years, so it was not without some
bitter tears for herself that she faced the
situation. She folly appreciated the
difference between Mrs. Wainwright’t
heiress, and a dressmaker toiling for the
support of two women; between the
petted efaild of this home of luxury, with
servants to obey every wish, and the
drndge of a little cottage with an almost
helpless invalid to care for. Yet she
never faltered.
And when Mrs. Wainwright saw the
pale, resolute faoe at dinner, she knew
that she must lose one who was very
dear to her. Not for the first time, she
regretted her own residence abroad for
fourteen years, when sho might have
been winning Estelle’s love, as this
JS r,TL h 6r fVl th6 ,l e “ t ’
’
dut ^’ Go tben '
™ Si wilh I 11 ^, 1 . h °i 7 y B ° nr glV6U un
'
grateful desertion. I had rather spare
myself the pain of any parting scene.
John shall dnveyou to the depot in the
morning, and this will pay your travel
ing expenses, and help yon until you ob
ta “?. wo
, . . , ,
SSSSaW* hand and kissed it warmly.
“Do not me ungrateful,” she
said, her tears fid 'ling fast: “it breaks
my heart to offend you. Please' kiss
me, and give me a loving word before I
go.”
“There, child, never make s scene I
Good-by;” and she did hiss the pleading,
upturned face.
“May X write to you?”
“Just as you please. I shall not ex
peot it.”
And keeping her cold, impassive face,
Mrs. Wainwright went to her own
room, bolted the door, and came oat no
more until Estelle had taken her de¬
parture the next day.
It was a room most unlike that in
which Mb. Wainwright had taken leave
of Estelle, that the yorfng girl entered
late in the afternoon of the fallowing
day. The little cottage where Mrs,
West wept for her unnatural child’s de¬
sertion had but four rooms, all oounted,
and these were furnished very simply.
In one of these, stooping over a sewing,
machine, stopping often to oougn, an
elderly lady, In plain mourning gar¬
ments, was seated when Estelle came in.
Every traoe of agitation was carefully
driven from her faoe, as, with a tender
smile, she said:
“Aunt Mary, will you say
home to me?”
“Estelle 1”
That was all, but the joy of the
was too warm to bo bidden.
“You are glad to see me,”
said, brightly.
“Glad, child! glad I My own
little girl. I have missed yott
Estelle. But,” she said,
“you have not quarreled with
Aunt Cora?”
“We heard you were alone,”
said, evasively, “so I got permission
make you a long visit. Aunt Cora
me a hundred dollars for
“Alone !” the mother said,
“Theoda has gone, Estelle. My
' whom I never denied any pleasure
my power to grant I Oh, Estelle, it
kill me 1”
her aunt spoke truly. The little
nant of life in the consumptive frame
was surely to be shortened by the cruel¬
ty of her own child.
But by every loving devioe the self
sacrifioing girl strove to keep the feeble
flame of life still burning. She let it be
known in the village that she was anxious
to obtain work as a dressmaker, and
soon found employment. Some curios¬
ity was expressed at this sudden return
from tho “rioh aunt” who had taken her
away a year before, but Estelle only
told the simple truth, that one aunt
needed her, while the other did not.
Work, none too well paid, came to the
little cottage, and the household duties
were shared while Mrs. West could keep
about. It was in November that Estelle
came to her, and before February she
was unable to leave her bed. The duties
then of nursing and still keeping up
with her engagements for dressmaking,
pressed very hardly upon Estelle, bnt
she never faltered. Day after day the
invalid was tenderly oomforted, and yet
the busy click of the sewing-maohine
was beard far into the night.
There was kindness shown by the
village people that helped in this labor
of love. Some came to sit up at night,
when the invalid required watching.
Many a dainty dish, sent to tempt Mrs.
West’s appetite, proved a sufficient meal
for both. One neighbor sent a cart-load
of fire-wood, one a barrel of apples, and
there was never wanting a kindly word
of sympathy. So the dreary winter
wore away, and to the surprise of all,
Mrs. West lived through the bitter
March weather. How tenderly she was
guarded and nursed in that trying month
none knew but herself; but as the warm
spring days oame she brightened visibly.
Theoda wrote occasionally, seemingly
glad that Estelle had oome to take the
post she had so heartlessly abandoned.
In one of her letters she wrote:
“My husband bids me tell Estelle it
is as well, perhaps, that she did not
build any strong hope upon MV« , Wain
wright’s capricious adoption of her, as
he will certainly inherit his nnele’s
money.”
Estelle made no comment upon the
message, but in her heart wondered if
money could be ever put to any
good use in hands so selfish as Theoda’a
or her husband's. It seemed a bad pre
“Odout for any noble action, this deser
tion of a dying parent.
Summer stole away, every day lessen
j Dg the invalid’s strength, and winter
loomed np threateningly in the future,
All of Mrs. Wainwright’s gift was gone,
and poorly paid, Often interrupted sew.
x-sataersfe the 6ig ht, Auk
wrote to her cora. It
1ft
waioneof many hmg letters, but the
ftrlt that asked for aid. Estelle wrote;
The doctor tolls me Annt Mary can
noi live many weeks longer, and she re¬
quires almost inoessant care, having
frequent distressing spells of bleeding
aB(l suffocation. 1 find I cannot supply
the comforts she needs; bo I turn to you,
not to beg, bnt to borrow. Will you
lend me a hundred dollars, and I will
fwilfully work till it is paid, when Aunt
* lon needs
8? “Sere no 8 er my time ?
was the usual curt reply to this
■*&?, but the loan was sent with a brief
tfmation that the promised payment
was expected.
Early in November the end came,
gefitly and painlessly, the dying breath
spent Never in a blessing for the faithful nurse.
onoe had Mrs. West suspected
that hep nieoe was forbidden to return
to the luxurious home she had quitted
for her sake, so she had mode no* dispo¬
sition of the little property in her power
to will away—the cottage and garden
around it. It seemed to Estelle, young
and ignorant of business, only a matter
of course that she should oontinue to
live and work in the oottrge where she
had nursed her aunt’s last moments.
But Theoda, who [came to the funeral,
informed her [she would put the place
ink) the hands ot a lawyer for sale, and
she-must look for a boarding-place in
the Village.
Bewildered, weary with watching,
sorrowing sincerely for her dead, Estelle
turned from the words, issued almost
invitingly, heart. with a’sick faltering of her
true
“A letter, Miss Estelle,” said one of
the village boys, tapping at the low
window. “I was passing the post-office,
and brought it.”
“Come and work out your debt to me
Cora Wainwright.”
a temporary home, at least, and
the ■3 1 desolate ’girl promptly obeyed. In
the* November twilight, as they had
3, these two met again. The stern,
IF, woman, who had so harshly put
hoice* of duties before the warm
writing’ when she en¬
tered timidly.
"So you have oome baok,” she said,
looking at the pale faoe and drooping
eyes.
“To pay my debt,” was the gentle
reply.
“Pay it here 1”
And Estelle found herself infolded in
an embrace so warm that the tears
sprang to her eyes.
“Here on my heart!” said Mis. Wain¬
wright, “craving suoh love as you give,
tender, true, self-saorificing little Estelle!
I tried you sorely, child, only to find you!
We will not part again, Estelle, till
the grave closes over another old annt.”
And when that hour came, oomforted
by Estelle’s love, Mrs. Wainwright’B
will was found to leave all her property
to her “beloved nieoe, Estelle Mason.”
Bnined by Red Lights.
“Do yon see that poor old bloat walk¬
ing up the track there?” remarked a
switchman to some loungers in his little
shanty. “See how groggy he walks.
He’s a wreck; no good on earth any
more to himself or anybody else. Two
years ago that man was the oraek engi¬
neer of this road. He had ail the posts
of honor. If there was a flying special
to be run with the president or the di¬
rectors or some big bugs on the private
car, he was always selected. His regular
job was palling the limited. A better
man never thumbed a throttle. Bnt
red lights ruined him. Yes, sir, red
lights got away with him, and now he
couldn’t get a freight engine and hasn’t
run a mile in six months. All owing to
them infernal red lights,
“What do you mean? Did he fail to
stop some time for a red light and thus
cause an accident.
“Oh, no; it wasn’t that sir. He
never had a wreck of no kind, save him¬
self. He always stopped for red lights,
and that was just the trouble. He got
so he couldn’t walknp the street hut
he would stop at every place where there
was a red light out Now look at him.”
Chicago Herald.
A Spanish Town.— Alhama dc Gran¬
ada, recently destroyed by an earth¬
quake, possessed the most romautio
situation and the most romantic history
of anyj town in Spain. It stood high
upon the verge of a gigantic cleft in the
mountains, the result of volcanic action.
From its position it was justly regarded
by the Moors as the key of their King¬
dom of Granada, and when captured in
1482 by the forces of Ferdinand and
Isabella, the Alhambra was felt to be
foredoomed. origin to J||pkhat the mournful event which
gave ballad,
“Muy Doloroso,” translated by Lord
Byron, -iff refrain at tho close
of eachjtamm- Woe is me, Alhama I"
VOL. V. New Series. No. 11,
4 TOUCHING SCENE.
A TOUCH OP NATURB WHICH MAKES
THE WHOLE WOULD KIN.
The Self-Sacrifice of * tVduittn Which
Chanced SelSihueo* fo Sympathy.
“There was a pathetic scene on a train
on the Western Division of the Erie re¬
cently,” said a conductor on that road.
“A woman boarded the train at Olean.
She carried in her arms a baby bnt a
few weeks old. It was very cross and
peevish, and defied all of its nurse’s ef¬
forts to keep it quiet. Its cries were at
times so loud and piercing that the other
passengers oonld not hide their annoy¬
ance, and after a while audible expres¬
sions of their feelings came from all parts
of the oar. The woman was patient
ander 4,16 double trial of the ohild’s
troublesomeness and the evident knowl¬
edge of the annoyance it was to her fel¬
low passengers. She talked soothingly
to the child, plaeed it in all positions,
and tried to so arrange its wrappings as
to, in a measure, deaden the sound of
its ories. Finally some one in the car,
whose impatience had got the better of
his sympathy, shouted out:
“ ‘If that child can’t be kept quiet, I
hope it will be removed from the oar at
the next station 1’
“This unfeeling remark seemed to
meet with general approval, and the
poor woman’s eyes filled with tears, and
in attempting to speak her feelings over¬
came her, and she pressed the baby
closer to her and sobbed violently. She
soon recovered herself, and redoubled
her efforts to keep the child quiet. For
a short time she anoceeded somewhat,
but presently the ories of the baby were
as loud and prolonged as ever. At last
a man arose and stftd sharply:
•t < Madam, it would seem to me that
the mother of an infant should know
how to take at least half oare of it,’
“The train had now stopped at Sala
manoa. At the remark of the second
speaker, the woman arose in her seat,
and, facing the oar full of passengers,
said, in a voioe trembling:
“ ‘I am not tola poor little
mother. I never saw it before yester¬
day, and I believe it hasn’t a living rela¬
tive. Its father was killed on the rail¬
road a week before it was bom. Its
mother, living in a distant place, hurried
to the scene of her husband’s death.
The child was bom among strangers,
and day before yesterday the mother
died, leaving her little one with no one
to oare for it. I lived in the house
where the mother died, and volunteered
to do what I oonld ior the poor little
thing, and to go with the dead woman’s
remains to her native plaoe. Her body
is in this train. I am sorry the child is
so troublesome, but isn’t it entitled to
some little sympathy?’
“The effect of the woman’s words may
be imagined. There were few dry eyes
in the car when she dropped, sobbing,
into her seat. All selfishness was lost in
sympathetic thoughts of the little wan¬
derer, and a soore of hands that a mo¬
ment before were almost willing to raise
in chastisement of the babe were now
anxious to extend aid to it and its self
sacrificing guardian. It was a tonoh of
nature th at makes the whole w orld kin.”
The Amount of Water Trees Absorb.
Dr. J, M. Anders, in a geological
survey report, gives the results of his
inquiry as to the quantity of water
pumped from the earth by trees. He
finds that the average exhalation from
soft, thin leaved plants in clear weather
amounts to one and a quarter ounces
Troy per day or twelve hours for every
square foot of surface. Henee a moder¬
ate sized elm trees raise and throws off
seven and three-quarter tons of water
per day. In the report the facts are
applied to what is going on in America,
where certain inland fertile districts are
becoming converted into deserts by
wholesale clearings; and in other places,
such as the plains of Colorado, where
only five or six years of irrigation and
planting have already prodnoed a meas¬
urable increase of rainfall. It is main¬
tained that the deserts of Syria and Africa
are the resalts of cutting down trees,
and that original luxuriance may be re¬
stored by skillful renlantinar.
IN THE LEGISLATURE.
“Mr. Speaker, t arise to plaoe in
nomination a man, sir, what we all
know, sir, to be a man what ain’t got no
peer nowhar. We all know that he is
more than qnalifled, sir, for the posi¬
tion, for I sarvqp with him dnrin’ the
wah, sir; he will not only represent the
great partee, but, sir, the entire State.
Dnrin’the dark and bloody days when
the pale faoe of hunger pat its bloody
hand on the heart ot the nation he was
found to be ss true as steel, an grabbed
the gory wolf by the lappets of his
shirt and shook him nntil he loudly
begged for mercy .”—Arkansan * Trav¬
eller. >
THE HUMOROUS PAPERS.
WHAT WE FIND IN THEM THIS
WEEK TO SMILE OVK1L
A Safe Place—A Pretty ftlrl’e Shot—Had
Urea Katina Oalooo-Tbe Dear Children.
Etc., Etc.
A FBBTTS Gini/S SHOT.
As they were all coming out of the
dentally theatre together trod the young dress Sypher of the pretty acci¬
on
girl just ahead.
“Oh, shoo 1” involuntarily <*ol aimed
the young girl as she suddenly brought
up.
Young Sypher thought he saw aohanoe
for a mash.
“You needn’t shoo me,” he simpered,
smartly; “I’m no oow.”
“No,” the pretty girl returned, with
a glance that pinned him to the side of
the lobby, “perhaps not now, but yon
will be when you grow up.”
Then she swept on, while young
Sypher was so astounded that he actual'
ly forgot to light bis oakum-stuffed oi
garette when he got outside.— Boston
Journal.
BATING ONIONS.
•What makes you think they’re en¬
gaged, Mrs. Quigley ? Did her mother
tell you ?”
“No; she hasn’t said a word to me
about it.”
“Then I suppose her father men¬
tioned it to your husband ?”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Well, I give it up, then. How did
you find it out ?”
“Why, I met them out walking the
other afternoon, and stopped to chat
with them a few minutes. They’d both
been eating onions, and I tell you, Mrs.
Duekley, a sign like that never fails.
They’ll be married before throe months,
or I don’t know a mop from a mug¬
wump.”— Chicago Ledger.
MRS. 8MITHBR9 GETS IN A CRUSHER,
“Did you make that, papa?” inquired
Johnny Smithers.
“Yes, my son,” replied Mr. Smithers,
self-satisfaction aqd paternal pride bq^m
ing from his oountenanoe.
“And yon made it all out of your own
head, papa?”
“Yes, my son.”
“Beallyand truly?”
“Johnny," interrupted Mrs. Smithers
in an iqy tone of voioe, "yon will often
be surprised as yon grow older to learn
how many curious things oan be
from wood.’’—Oil City Derrick.
THE RETORT COURTEOUS.
Woman’s oruelty to woman has made
thousands fail to speak to each other.
Gioely had jnst dropped in to congrat¬
ulate her friend on pleasant prospects
direotly after Lent.
“Oh, I am so glad for yon, my dear.
Augustus always was suoh oharming
company. Oh, he’s real nloe. He paid
me marked attentions half a dozen years
ago."
“Indeed 1 I believe I’ve heard him
say something about your being a very
dear friend of his mother."
The coffee cream froze in the little
quaint pitcher on the table. So did the
morning’s conversation. — Hartford
Post.
EASILY PROVEN.
“I want to get rid of my partner,”
remarked the mean man to a lawyer.
“Who is he?”
“My brother. I want to prove that he
has a bad reputation."
“That is easy enough. You oan say
that he is your brother."
WORKED BOTH WATS.
“Why are you like the moon, Nick
up,” said his friend Bates. “I give it
up,” answered Niekup. “Well, because
your faoe is always bright and beaming
with good nature,” said Bates, and he
looked toward the bar. "That ain’t
bad; I’ll jnst tell that to my wife when
I get home,” said Niokap, and then he
winked at the bartender and told him
to “set ’em up again.”
“Mary,” said he, as he tumbled into
bed that evening, “Why am I like the
moon ?” “What is it ?’’ she sharply
asked. He repeated the question. “Be¬
cause yon are full every Lonth in
the year,” she answered and ushed
him .—Chicago Tribune.
THE DEAR CHILDREN.
Deaoon Buorag addressed the Sunday
school ehildretf as follows:
“I will tell you a story, dear children.
Little Harry was a real good little boy,
but his brothers Tom and George were
bad and thoughtless. One day, while
passiug Ihe house of a poor widow,
Tom and George began to throw stones
at her oat. Little Harry reminded them
that this was very wrong, and remon¬
strated so earnestly that presently they
stopped throwing stones at the eat, and
now, dear ehildren, what do you think
Tom and George then did ?”
“Began to throw stones at little Nan
Harry,” was the general Bhont,—
Fromisco IngieHde,
