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1 Ami is this really all the clue you have ?” > AH. I did not mean to tell yon until there iouslv. So late, anil Manch had not yet ap peared ! She half resolved to face old* Hagar was something more definite; hut do yon not and ride to the “Wild-Cat’s Den” to inquire see ?—I cannot keep anything from you. You about him. She was afraid to visit Ishmael’s have the key of my heart and you unlock it at will.” The words were heard by an ear they were not meant for. Mr. Avery stood in the door-way and looked darkly at the two at the window, whose faces were turned from him. As Colonel Archer’s last words fell on his ear, his eye flashed and he stepped rapidly into the room. But be fore he could speak,' Colonel Archer turned around and nodded with easy friendliness. Isn’t that so. Avery?’ he said. “Isn’t it hut again, unless she should increase the chance of notice and suspicion being drawn to it. While she was debating with herself the Stanley car riage drove to the door, and she had to descend to the dressing-room and receive the trio of laughing and excited girls who had come with their tall brother, their band-boxes and smart mulatto maid, eager for the pleasures of the ball. Lunch was announced soon after: Meli- cent thought it would never be over. Then they had an hour of music and chattv examination of true that these women worm our secrets out of the latest magazines, with their fashion-plates ns in spite of our better judgment? Here’s your lady has just unlocked my breast with the silver key of her tongue and let a small secret escape into her keeping, though I am well aware you will be the possessor of it before to-morrow, and will tease me unmercifully. So I’ll fore stall her story and tell you myself what there is to tell. She saw me yesterday, as she and you rode by, consulting the pretty French fortune teller in her cottage on Welcome street, and she insists that I Was bidding her ■ Make, not mar my fate, My fortune was her own; and patterns of crochet and bead-work. Still no Manch. Melicent’s anxiety became almost too great for outward composure. At last the idea occurred to her, that if she could go to the fortune-teller’s, she might find Gabriel there, and have an opportunity of speaking a warning word in his ear. But how should she get off from her guests? She hit upon an expedient for keeping their attention occupied. She invited them up to her room, and throwing open armoires, trunks and boxes, gave them permission to exam ine her “ things." Every woman knows the value of such a privilege—the interest such an occu “Buy any fish, madam?” he said, coming to her side. “No, I want none to-day,” she answered, and was turning off. when the boy asked: “Be you the mayor’s wife?” “Yes.” He held out a piece of crumpled paper. “ A chap begged me to give you this here dock- yment,” he said. “Hope it’s nothin' to give offense. I couldn’t git round promisin’ to bring it to you—he was so anxious-like.” Melicent ran her eyes over the “dockyment.” ‘ ‘ How did the boy come to give it to you ?” “ Me and my my feyther were cornin’ home in the skiff from fishin’ up at the mouth of Snaggy Bayou, when somebody hailed us from yon side the river, and asked us to come to them. We pulled over, and found this here chap a sittin’ on the bank. He lamed hisself climbin’ for bird’s-nests or somethin’, back in the swamp, and had managed to crawl and hobble out till he come to the river. But he was too much used up to get into his dug-out and paddle home; so he lay there restin' until he seed us. I knowed the chap,—we calls him Injun amongst us, and he's a handy boy and good fightin’ grit. Well, we tied his dug-out to our skiff and took him in with us, and landed him close to his own house; Then my feyther says to me. says he, ‘ We’s all against the luxuries of life, I hope you will forget each other as soon as you can. ” This was spoken in a tone and with an expres sion which brought from Flora a tearful look and a word of remonstrance. “ O, papa, do not ask me to forget him. He loves me.” “Xot enough to even drink your health on a day like this, when all the world is rejoicing.” “Yes, yes, he does;” and now Flora, with a look of unspeakable tenderness, whispered: “Dear Charlie, humor him. He is so set. Just one glass for my love. You know that you are more than life to me.” “Y'our love. Flora? Oh ! I would die for voir !” And the young man. gazing into her eyes, no longer hesitated. He raised the glass, pledged her health, and wished her happiness. “Ah ! that is the courage,” cried Mr. Tinshop. “I thought your manhood had not perished. Xow you suit me. I can't endure these milk sops who call themselves temperance men. Take another glass. Charlie, and the color will come to your cheeks and the tire to your eye. Fill our glasses once more. Floe, while we are in the humor.” “Oh ! Charlie, how kind it was in you?” she said, as with his second glass emptied, she stood bv his side, while her father went to attend to and I have plead guilty to the s< urging in excuse that Mademoiselle bewitching little Circe. Is she not “I have not observed her,” Mr. Avery said, coldly. He was not satisfied with the explana tion, for Melicent’s flushed cheek and clouded eyes did not tally with this light account. But he could not openly gainsay it. Colonel Archer’s manner was the perfection of careless, lialf-iron- snftimneacbment I»tM>n inspires. In a little while the beds, chairs human critters; I’ll tote this chap up and put the brewing of some punch, iselle Hr. line is n . tables were strewn wlth dresses, shawls, him in his bed and git him a doctor, for his -It is for your love,” lie murmured; “and * not v” ‘ hats - mantles, skirts—all the delicate parapher- knee’s sprained or out of joint.’ Which he did; since von rejoice, I do not regret it. Will you i nalia of a lady's wardrobe. Then Melicent said: but afore he went the little ’un put this in my excuse me now? I shall make but a few calls, hand, and begged me to give it right into yours. “Look at them as much as you please, my dears; but excuse me if I leave you to yourselves awhile. Flora will show you whatever you care to see.” The girls were well pleased to be left to them- be angry. ical jesting, with which it would seem follv to’ t° dip about among the bright confusion J •' of things and chatter like black-birds over a stubble-field. Melicent, by her maneuver having got rid of CHAPTER IX. her maid’s prying observation, descended to the library and put on, unobserved, a loose travel ing wrap which had been hanging behind the door since she wore it last. She doubled a berege veil over her face, and thus, in a manner disguised, she went out without attracting atten tion, and hurriedly took her way to Welcome street. Not till she had opened the gate that led into the neglected little door-yard, did it strike her what an unusual thing she was about to do in j visiting a house whose inmates were most likely I people of evil character, and where no reputable women went. What would be thought if it was known? What would her husband think? The parrot that had been watching her, as it swung head downwards in its cage, suddenly righted itself, and screamed discordantly in mingled French and English: “Come in,—come in, you fool! We’ll take i you in!” Its harsh, discordant laugh, its words (capa ble of double meaning), sounded mocking and ominous, and jarred upon Melicent’s excited consciousness. She turned aS if to riv, when the door of the house opened and the gay little figure of the fortune-teller appeared on the porch, i “Be quiet, Poll!” she cried, shaking her finger i at the parrot. “You are a naughty and impolite bird. Don’t mind her, madam. Enter—enter, I beseech you. ” \ She ran down the steps and met Melicent with smiles and courtesies, and drew her into the house. As they passed the first door that opened into the narrow passage, Melicent caught a glimpse of the old woman she had once seen before, stooping over a small fire on the hearth where a pot was boiling. She had just taken out a morsel upon a wooden spoon, and was giv ing it to the sulky poodle that sat by eyeing her movements. As he swallowed it daintily, the old dame cried in French: “Now, give me a kiss for thanks, my pretty;” and wiping the dog’s mouth with her dingy handkerchief, sh,e kissed it,with a hearty smack, j Mademoiselle Maline laughed merrily. “ One can see that those two are on good j A VISIT TO THE FORTUNE-TELLER S—DOG AND MIS TRESS—THE FISHER-BOY—A CURIOUS DOCUMENT. When Melicent was alone and could think coherently, she determined upon two things:— First, that Ishmael must be removed from where he was. If he was not well enough to travel, he must be helped away to some safer place. She felt sure that he was one of the three fishermen that Colonel Archer’s “eye of suspicion” had singled out; and she knew that if attention was once called to him, there were plenty of people living in Alluvia who had known him in Bear’s Bend, and would at once recognize him as Neil Griffin. The block-house, which Manch had suggested, seemed, upon the whole, the fittest place in which to conceal him until he was bet ter. It was universally shunned, chiefly from custom, growing out of the horrible associations of the place, and it was regarded with supersti tious terror by the negroes and ignorant people, whose prying propensities were most to be dreaded. Another circumstance that helped to make the block-house a desirable refuge was the fact that it was difficult to get into, set as it was upon high posts, with the steps that had led tip to it long since rotted away. Manch had prom ised to construct a rough, light ladder that he could take away when not in use, and hide in the underbrush and high weeds that grew under and around the house. The other thing that Melicent resolved to do was to see Gabriel Griffin, if possible, or to get Manch to tell him of the plot of which he was the tool, and warn him not to betray his brother. She thought of writing to him to-night and tell ing him, but how should she get the note to him? Manch had said that Gabriel was not staying at home lately; and if he were, whom could she trust to take such a note ? Not one of the servants. They would make difficulties about finding the house of the Griffins, especially at night; and if they agreed to go, she was by no means sure, that they could be relied upon to deliver the note safely. She would have to wait until to-morrow, when Manch would certainly come. She trusted nothing would be found out before then; but she was full of apprehension, and sadly disappointed that Manch had not come that evening. “Ishmael must be worse,” she thought, as she sat that night in her white dressing-gown, in a low, easy chair, gazing absently on her hands that were folded in her lap. Flora was combing out her long hair, and as she gathered the rich mass in both hands, the girl said: “Let me put it up in crimping pins, Miss Melicent, for the ball to-morrow night.” “ The ball!” uttered Melicent in a tone of an noyance. “Is it to-morrow night the ball is to be ?” “To be sure, Miss! Is you done forgot?—and your dress such a beauty, and the Stanley young ladies a-comin’ in to-morrow to dress here and go along wid you and de mayor? Their colored lady, Rose Martin, is cornin’ with ’em. She’ll have to get me to fix their sashes and puff their hair. Rose Martin can’t tie a bow genteel to save her, and she don’t know no more about puffin’ hair, dan you do about hoein’ pertatoes. Miss Melicent. Everybody praises the way I dresses your hair; but, then, your hair is so soft and shiny, it looks nice whichever style you put it up. You takes de shine off ’em all. Miss Mel icent. 1 do declar—both in dress and behavior.” Flora was disappointed that her flattery had no effect upon its object. Melicent’s clouded brow betrayed anxiety. The ball was a hind rance she had overlooked. She could not decline going to it. It was given by the Bradwell’s—an influential family, friends of her husband, and expected to be a strong stake in the coming elec tion. The Stanley's, another important family, were coming in from the country to go the ball, and the young ladies had begged the honor of being chaperoned by Mrs. Avery, as their mama was a home fixture, and never went beyond the shadow of the house chimneys. Melicent was sure they would come early, according to coun try custom, and that the day would be taken up in efforts to entertain them—in small shopping excursions for their benefit, in eating and dress ing—to the exclusion of graver matters that might claim her thought or action. Next morning, as soon as she was at leisure, she betook herself to making up a number of small parcels of necessary articles to put in Manch's basket when he should arrive. She tied up little packages of tea, sugar, crackers, etc., and put beside them a loaf of light-bread and one of light cake, some sandwiches, a bottle of wine, and a can or two of condensed soup, brought up from the store-room. “Manch can warm it over a few coals; he can 1 make a little fire in the middle of the block house, on a pile of dirt or a flat stone or two,” she thought, as she tied up the packages with deft fingers, and pleased herself with thinking that if she could have her way, how comfortable she could make Ishmael in the old haunted block-house. She stopped thinking to smile at herself. “Clearly, I was never meant for a fine lady,” she said. “I enter with too much zest into the make-shifts of vangabondism.” And then she added softly: “Perhaps I ought to have remained a vagabond. It would have been better than the fate that seems destined for me—that of an un loved, distrusted wife.” Again she stopped and repeated bitterly the word “Wife ?—I am not his wife ! I have no right to his love—no right to this position, these luxuries! I have no right to anything but the poor discomfort of the fisher man's hut. I will never feel honest and true again until the truth is known, and I have relin quished the false position I occupy — relin quished, too, my false claim upon a noble heart.” A clock striking the hour of eleven made her suddenly shirt up and walk to the window anx- He said you’d understand it, which is more’n I did when I took a peep at it. It’s a curus-lookin' paper to me. He writ it on the linin’ of his hat.” “Thank you for bringing it,” said Melicent. “I’d a brought it this mornin’ soon, only marm had a shaken ager, and I had to tend the baby till she was fotched round awhile ago.” “ Go around in the back yard to the kitchen. The cook will buy your fish, and I will see you again before you go away.” When she entered the house, Melicent looked again through her tears at the scrap of paper, which exhibited a lot of singular characters, being a specimen of the “chap’s” chirography, and which, being interpreted, read: “I fell from a limb at the block-house and hurt my leg. Go to see Ishmael.” Melicent sat down and wrote, or rather printed, the following message, making it plain and con- concise as possible: “I am very sorry for your hurt. I will come to see you as soon as I can. Try to see Gabriel to-day. Get H to find him if he does not come home. Warn him not to tell any thing to the fortune-teller. It is a plot against and then go home.’ “Do not go home, Charlie, but return here to spend the evening.” “I will if you desire it, Flora.” He was gone, and Flora now had her hands full in receiving visitors. “Papa, what has become of Charlie Grey? He has not been here since New Year’s morning, and he promised to come back that same even ing.” It was Flora Tinshop who asked this question, and it was the second week in January when she asked it. “I heard to-day that he was very sick—dan gerously ill!” said her father, unguardedly, for he did not know how deeply his daughter loved. “Dangerous!” she screamed. “Dangerous, and I not near him ! Why, father, dear father, take me to his house instantly. I shall die I shall die too if he dies !” Raving wildly. Flora hurried to dress for the street, and taking no denial, she forced her father to escort her to the residence of widow Grey. Trembling from head to foot, father and daugh- [For The Sunny South.] SEVEN YEARS AGO. BY HESTER E. SHIPLEY. Does the coming of the twilight in its robe of silver gray. O'er the star-bespaugleil heavens at the waning of the day, To your spirit ever whisper, in accents sweet and low. Of one who watched it with you, seven years ago? When the moon is softly throwing o’er the earth her silvery vail. Think you of that hallowed hour, when you breathed to me a tale Of a pure love warmly gushing as you pressed me closer to Your heart, so wildly throbbing, seven years ago? When plaintive strains of music with touching cadence fall On your ear, does it no memory of a happy time recall, When o'er me fondly leaning, your face with love aglow. We sang sweet songs together, seven years ago ? When bright eyes are on yon beaming, sweet lips a welcome smile. Or softly-murmured answers the happy hours beguile, Think you of brown eyes so tender and a pure white brow of snow. You thought so lovely in their youth, some seven years ago? When a form of willowy grace, with a footstep light and free Greets your vision, brings it never a tender thought of me, Y'our “ queen of grace and beauty ” ?—you chose to call me so, In that vanished dream of happiness, seven years ago. Ah! 'tis vain now,this remembrance of a love forever past— This wild yearning for affection too purely bright to last; Y'et every hope of happiness I would freely give to know That you still love me, as you loved me seven years ago. [For The Sunny South.] “L. E. L” BY ANNIE H. SMITH. ter stood npon the door-steps, when they rung This note she gave to the fisherboy, after pay- | that house, for the hand that rang ing him liberally for Lis fish and obtained from ^. e touched the crape which denoted death him a promise to take it immediatelv to Manch. j within. The door was opened by Irene Grey. Her face was white with grief till she saw who was there, then a flush came upon it. She did not speak, but opened the door for them to enter, and pointed to the parlor. They went in, father and daughter, and the next instant, with a wild, soul-harrowing shriek, Flora bent over the coffin which held all that was left of Charles Grey. The day before he had died of delirium tremens. Shriek after shriek broke from the lips of Flora as the full (TO BE CONTINUED.) [Published by Request of Aurora Lodge, Macon. Ga.] A NEW YEAR’S STORY. “Charles, will you do me a great favor?” It was Irene Gray who thus addressed her only brother, a fine, manly-looking young man, whose dress and carriage told his position to be that of terms, she said, nodding towards the old j you came, or rather how you were brought home woman, who looked up and saw them for the ; last New Year’s dav. and the lonu. terrible sick- a gentleman, in the common acceptation of the | conviction came to her heart, and she cried out term. It was the day before the New Year holiday of 1870. “Yes, dear sister, if in my power. You know it is ever a joy to me to add to your pleasure when I can. What is it now ? Do you wish me as an escort to the theatre or ball ?” “No, dear brother, it is this: Do not make any New Year’s calls to-morrow.” “Heavens! Irene, you astonish me. What possible harm is there in this dear old custom of visiting one’s lady friends and wishing them a happy New Y'ear ?” “ Charles, do you remember in what condition first time. “Make ’em pay well,— make ’em pay well, mon petite /” she cried, nodding her own head with its dirty cap. “Never mind, dame; I’ll attend to my own affairs,” returned the girl, opening a door on the other side of the passage and peeping in. Melicent had a momentary glimpse of a tall figure stretched on a lounge, with his hands locked under his head, smoking and musing, as it seemed. “That is right,” said the Frenchwoman, with her head inside the door. “Make yourself com fortable until I return. Place aux dames, you know.” Melicent had recognized Colonel Archer, and she drew back and turned to her companion. “You have visitors,” she said; “I will come another time.” “By no means. I will take you to a private room. I merely wanted to look in and ask the gentleman to excuse my absence.” “But I prefer to come another day,—say to morrow, at this hour,” persisted Melicent, put ting some money into the woman’s hand. No doubt you have many visitors,” she continued, as they turned back; “one can hardly find you alone. By the by, is there a young man here named Gabriel Griffin?” “No,” the fortune-teller replied, “there is not.” “Has he visited you at any time to-day?” “No,” Mademoiselle answered, with a furtive but keen look at Melicent. “Will he be here to-day, do you think?” Mademoiselle shrugged her shoulders. “God knows !” she said. “How is one to rely on these men? He wanted me to use my art in his behalf, and half-promised to return. But no doubt his money has gone to the dram shop; and what can one do for him without money ?” Melicent hesitated a moment longer, twisting a diamond ring upon the finger of one of her ear’s day, and the long, terrible sick ness which followed ?” “Yes, sister; and the tender care which most j likely saved my life, for you were the watcher j by my side. But, sweet one, I signed the pledge j at your request as soon as I got well. I have j kept it ever since, for I feel as you feel, that my character and my very life both depend on my j total abstinence from alcoholic drink.” “Yes, Charles, you signed, and so far, with God’s help, have kept the pledge But to-mor- j row will be a day of terrible temptation. Wine and hot punches will disgrace many a table where you would visit; fair lips will tempt you to taste, and ” “Stop one moment, dear Rene—do you think any lady will ask me to break my pledged word ?” “Charles, you will find even as I have found among our acquaintances those who will laugh at what they term the folly of abstinence, the fa naticism of temperance. You will be pressed to take one here, and one there, and then, excited by a single drop, will become the tyrant, and you are lost!” “Nonsense, darling sister ! I am firm. I will make my iisual calls and show them all that I am and will be a man.” “Charles, I tremble for the result. At least, promise me not to go to the house of Mr. Tin- shop.” “Why, sister, of all places not to neglect that is the one. I don’t think much of old Tinshop, j tu” for he is a whisky bloat; but I love Flora, and j she loves me. We are as good as engaged now, ! and were I not to call on her it would seem like j an insult.” “Ah ! Charlie, you know as well as I that the ! table there will contain the deadly temptation, in the agony of her soul:’ “ He loved me ! He loved me !” “Yes—to his death !” said his sister, sternly. Then turning to Mr. Tinshop, she said in a low, solemn tone: “Murderer ! behold your victim ! You made him break his pledge, and there he lies. A widow’s curse is on your head ! His mother is on her death-bed, broken-hearted. I, soon to be an orphan, and now brotherless through you, add my curse to hers. Take your child and——” William Tinshop could not take his child alone from that room. She was a raving maniac, and it took strong men to tear her from the coffin of the loved and lost. She now raves in an asylum for the insane, and her cries and curses are all the time upon that fell spirit, rum. Bulwer’s Burial. Perhaps there is no one of England’s sweet singers whose melodies have been wafted to our shores, with whose memory there is associated more of sadness mingled with deeper veneration than with that of the gifted and beautiful, but hapless L. E. L. But for the melancholy termi nation of her short and brilliant career, it is pos sible that justice would never have been accorded her. Happily, malice cannot if it so wills— pursue its victim beyond the grave; and so human sympathy, tardy in manifesting itself, at least dropped a tear upon the yawning chasm which shut out all that was mortal of this child of genius. Letitia Elizabeth Landon was born in the en virons of London in 1802. By the demise of her lather, she was at an early age thrown upon her own resources. The care of brothers and sisters also devolved npon her; and how nobly she struggled against adverse circumstances—how well she succeeded in not only maintaining her self and young charges, but in rising superior to her misfortunes, the brightness of the laurels she won will attest. Nor did she live at a time when it was an easy matter to succeed. Around her were some of those bright intellects of whom Britain delights to boast; yet the scintillations of her genius were felt and appreciated, eliciting applause then as now. Still, she never lost that sweet womanliness and grace which character ized her entire life and which is the chief orna ment of her sex in any age. Several writers hint that the melancholy vein which pervades her poetry is rather fancied than real; nevertheless, it is more than probable that she gave to the world a bright, cheerful face while there was sounding through the locked chambers of her soul a touching miserere unheard by all ears save her own, Who can doubt it when with mourn ful pathos she tells us,— “ The heart is made too sensitive Life’s daily pain to bear; It beats in music, but it beats Beneath a deep despair.” A writer in Westminster Abbey reminiscences says: “On a cloudy and dismal winter morning a hearse bearing a dead body was seen to halt in the court-yard in front of the abbey. It was fol lowed by three carriages containing the friends of the deceased. The casket was borne by four persons and placed in front of the altar, around which clustered some half-dozen persons clad in tumn passed over her life )ln(1 left - ts bli „ ht . the deepest habiliments of woe. As this little Alas f thftt man > 8 inhumanity should have e band of those who mourned the loved and lost Such, doubtless, was her own experience; for it was just as she was becoming famous and the circle of her influence, like the ripple of a mighty river, was broadening and widening, that the breath of calumny, the whisperings of false friends brought sorrow to her heart; and though nothing could mar the conscious integrity of her soul, still this slander, like the early frost in au- | knelt around the chancel, the dean commenced i reading the burial service of the Episcopal church, than which nothing could be more j solemn and beautiful. He had scarcely com menced when the aisles, already dim, became 1 suddenly darkened — so dark that to proceed with the services was an utter impossibility. As there are no arrangements for lighting the abbey, it looked for a moment rather dubious. However, a bergher soon appeared from behind j the pulpit, bearing two small candles, which he j placed on either hand of the reader, by which means he was enabled to proceed. Nothing could surpass the solemnity of the hour. Again organ pealed fftrth its thunderous tones— not a ‘wedding march,’ but a requiem for the dead. The services concluded, a death-like stillness pervaded the vast edifice, broken only by the sobs of those who wept. Just at that mo ment light sufficient gleamed from without to reveal here and there a few scattering ones who -ii i . , * * , ideal Here anil mere a lew scanming oner, who “2 w had come to witness the service, of had acci- and that she. his pet heiress, will have to coin cide in his views.” “Yet, for all that, my sister, I will; for in keep- _ _ ing it I know exists ali my safety. If I break it, delicate hands that were clasped under the full honor, character, all that makes life worth pos- of dwrknMrand°MmosTniidnighr gloom “were mantle, and reflecting within herself whether it sessmg will go. Do not fear for me. I love you, overdfthaf ^mortal ! of the ‘Night and Morning.’” dently strayed there at that time. The casket was now deposited in its final resting place, the mourners hastily departed and were borne away to their distant homes; and thus, amid this scene would be of any use to try to bribe this woman and I will not swerve from the path you opened not to lend herself to Colonel Archer’s plot. She out for me when I lay upon my sick bed.” decided that it would not do to rely upon her. She would take the bribe and make the promise, most likely, but would break her word without scruple. Also, she would probably betray Meli cent to her employer; and thus the only hope of aiding Neil would be cut off, for Colonel Archer would not only tell her nothing more, but would keep a strict and suspicious watch upon her movements. ' “Did madam wish to see the young man, Ga briel Griffin?” queried the fortune-teller, who had been scrutinizing her visitor as closely as the thick vail would permit. “No,” said Melicent with well-assumed indif ference; “I do not know him. I happened to hear, by accident, that one of his relatives was quite sick, and that he was anxiously looked for at home. You might be kind enough to mention this to him, if you should see him.” Melicent risked this much, feeling sure she was not reeogpized and hoping that curiosity might induce Gabriel to go home, where she would by that time have conveyed a note or a message by means of Manch. She still hoped that the boy would come to-day; perhaps he had arrived during her absence. She hurried away, pursued by the shrill screams of the parrot— agitated and disappointed, but congratulating herself that Colonel Archer had not seen her. and that the fortune-teller's keen black eyes had failed to penetrate the thickness of her vail. As she reached the gate of her own yard, a cry of “Nice, fresh fish !” struck her ear. She turned quickly and threw up her vail. It was not Manch, but a boy much taller, with a shallow basket or creel upon his head. She said no more. She saw that argument was useless; she could but pray to her heavenly Father to save the brother of her love from a drunkard's death. “Ah ! here comes a welcome visitor, Floe,” cried Mr. Tinshop when Charles Grey entered his parlors, early on thatNew Y'ear’s day. “Mr. Grey, I am glad to see you.” “Charles, you are very, very welcome!” was the warm, tender greeting of Flora as she clasped his extended hands in both of hers. “Dear Flora, I come to wish you a happy New Y'ear, and I never saw you look so lovely as now. 0, how beautiful you are !” This was in a low tone, for Mr. Tinshop at that moment was busy at his table. He came to them a moment after with a silver salver in his hand. stood but too visible. “Here is to a hundred New Y'ears as bright as this!” cried Mr. Tinshop, as Flora took up one glass and he another. “Hardly can we expect a hundred, but I will say many,” said Flora, with a smile. “Why, Charlie, what is the matter? Y'ou do not touch your glass,’’said Mr. Tinshop. “You are not sick ?” t‘No; but I signed the pledge about eleven months ago, and have kept it ever since.” “ Pshaw! I did not dream that you was such a spooney. I believed you to be a young man of spirit and manly independence.' As such, I have rejoiced to see an apparent attachment springing up between you and Flora. But if you are one who can sign away your own rights and privileges and join in a fanatical crusade Another Venus in the Field. Ancient Rome is gradually yielding up to the light its art treasures. During Christmas week some of the workmen employed in clearing away a quantity of fallen walls and debris for the pur- | pose of leveling the newly-marked-out streets ! upon the Esquiline, unearthed a perfect treas ure-trove of sculpture. Among marble gods i and goddesses, discovered in all stages of frac ture, was a Venus of the purest Parian marble, : which the London Times correspondent says is considered the gem of the lot. The statue is perfectly nude, and is the figure of a lovely girl of seventeen. She stands with both feet npon the ground close together, the left a couple of On it three glasses of sparkling wine inches further back, with the heel very slightly ’ “ * raised. A moment before she was erect, but she had dropped into an easier position, with the left knee bent forward and inward against the right. Her left hand is resting on the knot of hair at the back of her head, while the right holds the fillit she has already passed several times round it. In doing this she has swayed a little over and down to the right, bringing the left side forward. The shoulders are well set back, and the face is turned to the right and a little downward, showing from the front a not quite three-quarter view. It is thought that the statue will take rank above the Medicean Venus. The Sunny South, at Atlanta. Georgia, is the largest and most handsome of the literary papers now published in the Cnited States.—Progress ive A>;e, S. C: bittereil her proudest triumphs and withered the bays ere they had scarce graced her brow ! Of all her poems, “The Improvisatrice” has been probably most admired both in our coun try and her own. There is in it a beautiful blending of the imaginative with a most exquis ite tenderness, so that the general reader may be pardoned for his preference for this poem. In 1887, Miss Landon, while visiting a friend at Hampstead, met a Scottish gentleman who had rendered valuable service to the British government, and was at that time governor of a colony in Africa. He was fascinated by the bril liancy of this talented lady, and she equally at tracted by his heroic conduct in a foreign coun try, as well as by his handsome, dignified ap pearance. This mutual admiration ended in the bestowal of her hand in marriage npon Mr. McLean in June, 1838. However, it is scarcely possible that there was any deep attachment on her part, at least; for previous to this meeting, Miss Landon had been engaged to a most esti mable gentleman, to whom it is said she was deeply attached; but the engagement was an nulled by her, for some cause unknown,—in all probability an undue importance he may have attached to the calumnies circulated against her, and which her extremely sensitive nature could not brook. In a short time after her marriage to Governor McLean, we find her quitting English shores for his far-distant home, bearing with her the warm wishes of the few faithful friends that had ever remained true to her. It is to this journey that we are indebted for two of her most charm ing gems, viz: “Polar Star” and “Night at Sea.” Arriving in Africa, Mrs. McLean soon en deared herself to all around her by her amiabil ity and sweetness of disposition. But the mar riage proved to be an uncongenial one, and too late she realized that the cold, unscrupulous na ture of the man she called husband was illy cal culated to meet the requirements of her own warm, loving heart. However, we hear of no nmrmurings or repinings, and a few months later come the sad tidings that poor L. E. L. is no more. Some say she perished a victim to the cruelty of her husband: others, that she died of heart disease; while not a few suggest that, driven to despair by her utter isolation from the few who loved her, and tortured by a grief too deep for expression, too sacred for sympathy, the wretched woman, in a rash hour, raised to her own lips the fatal cup and quaffed the liquid that brought her forgetfulness. Which of these suggestions is the correct one will never be known; suffice it for England that one of her sweetest singers sleeps in an untimely grave on the rock-ribbed shore of Africa, where the mur mur of the grand old ocean ceaselessly chants a lullaby sublimer than cathedral hymns and end less as' time itself. Still it were fitter that she should rest upon her native soil, where the sil very-throated nightingale might warble in the tree-tops above her grave, and English daisies kiss the sod under which she sleeps.