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excited in his mind. Thought of herself was of
small account at this moment.
“You could not speak with more feeling if
this man were your lover,” Colonel Archer said,
with irritated significance in his tones, but
drawing nearer to her as he spoke.
She started from her listless gloom as if she
had heard the hiss of a serpent. She drew back
a step, and lifting her head, stood before him—
transformed in an instant into an image of proud
dignity. Her eyes flashed one withering look
upon him; then she turned calmly away.
‘ I might have known that such as he would
was so still that she could hear the fierce heating
of her own heart. At last she heard his step in
the passage outside. He was going on to another
room, when she opened the door and called to
him. He stopped, hesitated, and finally came
in. He stood before her, with his hand upon
the door, partially closing it behind him.
“What is it you want with me. madam?”
“Only that you should not think evil of me
because of appearances, Aleck.”
“Think evil of you?” he repeated, throwing
scorn,
snake
back his head and laughing in bitterest sc
“Surelv not. Would I think evil of a si
her—upon her wan lamp and haggard face. She
rang a summons for her maid, who appeared
after some delay, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
Melieent gave tlie letter into her hands and
directed her to take it to the office at once, that
it might be sent off in this morning's mail.
When the girl was gone, Melieent threw her
self upon the bed and buried her face in the
cool pillows. But sleep would not visit her
burning eyes. A maze of many images swam
before her. She seemed whirling still in the
dizziest of waltzes — whirling to the maddest
music—round and round, as it seemed, on the
put an evil construction upon what I have done that should crawl to my fireside, warm itself at verge of a frightful precipice—round and round
to-niirht,” she said, with a sad scorn in her voice, mv hearth, and sting me? Would I thin! ” ' ’ ' ......
. r 3' T A. ..I * 4.: ii r u T .-X , ...
‘And what other construction, in the name of
heaven, could you expect, Mrs. Avery?”
“One befitting a being with a soul as well as
senses; a reference to compassion, sympathy,
duty,—a belief in some mystery that might have
misfortune in it, but not guilt. But no—I am
at fault. I expected nothing of the kind; I ex
pect nothing of you, Colonel Archer. Our paths,
that have met casually, separate now forever. I
am going; I wish you good-night. Here, Mon
soon,—come here.”
The horse wheeled at her call and came up to
her, where she stood on the low step at the cabin
door.
“Stay!” cried Colonel Archer impetuously,
his better instincts rising dominant. “Listen
to me, I entreat you. I do not doubt you; no
sane man can that looks into your face. I believe
in you, in spite of circumstances. I will not seek
to pry into your motives or your feelings; I will
respect them. No act of mine shall again add
to your distress or annoyance. Forgive me.
Think of me as a friend: I cannot bear that
you should think of me only as a revengeful
and a sensual man. Will you not look upon me
as a friend ?”
of it, or would I merely crush it and fling it
from me with loathing?”
He threw off the hand she had laid upon his,
stepped back and folded his arms on his breast.
“Very well,” said his wife, growing ashen-pale
to her lips as her hand dropped at her side.
“Yet I must still appeal to you, Aleck. I can
bear anything better than your contempt Be
lieve in my truth, if it is hard to do so. I am
unfortunate, but not guilty. If you knew all,
you might not love me any more, but I should
have your sympathy, your respect. That would
be much,—that would help me to bear up under
my hard fate; but to have you think evil of me—
to have you think of me as so base, so unworthy—
that—oh ! that is bitter !”
He looked at her, standing before him in her
white dressing-gown—so pale, so sorrowful, but
so earnest, so candid in look and voice.
“ Believe you !—trust in you !” he cried. “ Dc
you think me an idiot? You talk of trust and
belief, and you offer no explanation of your un- .
accountable conduct to-night! Will you tell me
your object in putting forth a pretense of illness,
that you might go home alone,—that you might
ride off' at midnight and be away for hours—no
think evil in her partner’s grasp; and suddenly the ground
fails beneath her feet — a gulf yawns beneath
her. She is falling, falling; no, she sways— |
swings over the abyss—round and round still;
and raising her eyes to pray for mercy, she sees i
that it is a rope from which she swings—a rope
knotted around the neck of the man that holds 1
her in a dying clutch. And his face! she sees
it as she saw it once before—livid, contorted
with death-struggles—the face of Neil Griffin!
As she stares at it in numb horror, she sees the
rope severed above his head. She feels herself
falling—falling through awful space — nearing
that black gulf below, where black waters roll
and hissing serpents lift up their crested heads—
nearing it; but as they touch the seething flood,
the hand of Unconsciousness wipes the vision
from her brain,—she knows no more.
'W hen Flora went to wake her mistress, hours
after, she found her lying with scarlet cheeks
and half-closed eyes, in the heavy stupor of fever.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
[For The Sunny South.]
Select a Profession and Stick to It.
(For Th«' Sunny South J
NONU.
(From the German of If'ine.)
BY CHARLES W. HrBNKR.
Yonder a star in foiling—
Flashing athwart my night!
That is the Love-Star, falling
Down from its gleaming height.
From the apple-tree folleth
Blossom and leaf away;
Zephyrs, in frolicsome humor,
Tease and toss them in play.
On the lake the swan is singing.
And rowing to and fro:
Softer and softer singing.
He dives to his grave below.
Silence and darkness surround me!
Blossom and leaf are gone,—
The star into dust is shiver’d,—
Hush'd is the song of the swan.
[For The Sunny South.]
TWO VIEWS OF LIFE.
She stooped to gather the reins more closely one knows where? Will you tell me why and
’ ’ '■ ’ * ’ ’ where you went, and your reason for covering
up your intention with secresy and falsehood ?”
She was silent a moment. Her promise to her
father, in answer to his solemn injunction that
she should never betray the secret of her life—
the creeping fear she had begun to entertain,
that her father’s welfare was somehow darkly
bound up with this secret—made her hesitate.
She could not speak until she had heard from
her father. The old habit of blind obedience to
him, of reverence for him, asserted itself even
in view of the alternative of sorrow and shame.
“I cannot tell you, Aleck — not now. Bear
with me a few days, and it may be I shall be
permitted to explain all.”
“'Miserable subterfuge !” he cried. “Madam,
your hypocrisy sinks you even lower than your
unfaithfulness. I put no faith in a mystery that
a wife cannot explain to her husband. I will
not listen to such trifling. Do not dare to speak
to me again of your innocence.”
BY ROSA V. RALSTON.
in her little, white-gloved hands.
“The time is passing,” she said. “We return
by different roads; I shall take the foot-path on
this side the bayou. “Once more—good-night,
Colonel Archer.”
She bent her head, stately as ever; she touched
her horse, that, springing forward, disappeared
behind the moss-hung trees.
“ She would not accept my offered friendship,”
muttered Colonel Archer. “Well, it is hers all
the same. One can afford to be loyal to such a
woman—proud and gentle as though princess-
bom ! What a fool I was to think she could be
easily won ! But such a woman’s love would be
worth having. I wonder if it is possible she
can love that pale, wild-eyed wretch we nabbed
just now! Be it love or pity, or whatever else,
that was the motive, she has shown herself de
voted to him to-night. I’ll be hanged if it wasn’t
heroic, all things considered; for scandal is'
worse to a woman than a two-edged sword, and
she has braved that and Avery’s anger, to-boot.
If they find out about this midnight adventure,
the wolves of gossip will be upon her, sure. It’s
odds if Avery interposes. He’s more apt to side
with them and cast her off in a fit of jealous
madness. He ought to be shot if he does, and
I’d like to call him out myself unless, indeed—
but no, I’d stake my life on her honor. I’ve let
my vanity blind me into construing things my
own way; but I saw to the bottom of her soul in
that look she gave me to-night. There’s some
deuced mystery that I can’t see into; but, come
what may, I’ll stand her friend, whether she
wills it or not. I’ll serve her any way I can,
except setting free that villain I have in my
clutch at last. I wouldn’t forego giving him his
dues—not if my father’s ghost should beg it.”
While these thoughts ran through his mind,
Coloribl Archer entered the cabin of Neil Griffin
and surveyed its scanty contents. The mocking
bird, awakened by the music and light, burst
out into a wild carol; the squirrel, coiled up in
his box, peeped out of his bed of moss; the
“’TiOTmiv’ PeOTd.rrirt* stmw-fwfretf itFfra'p’fUcHU'
cifix hung over the window, and beneath it
bloomed a box of sweet violets.
“Singular furniture for a murderer’s den,’
Whatever be your position in life, learn to rely
upon yourself. Make truth and honor the basis
of all your actions. • Set your stakes high, and
strive to reach them. Let none of the minor
principles of your nature supersede that of self-
dependence. Make for yourself a character
which, in time of adversity, when poverty shall
sweep around you, will be of more value than
the richest legacy ever inherited. A vine which
twines its tendrils around a tree upon which it
depends for its upright position will, when a
storm uproots its stay, fall to the ground for the
want of a support. So it is with those young
men who are accustomed to depend upon their
fathers, wealthy relatives and rich heritages, for
sustenance and positions in life.
I am very much disposed to give credence to
the time-honored adage, “Where there’s a will,
there’s a way,” and think the young men of the
present day can attain precisely the same profi-
she cried, coming swiftly to his side and casting
herself on her knees before him “I will swear
it by the God above us. I cannot lose your es
teem ; it is the only consolation I can have. A
strange, a cruel fate has overtaken me. I am
obliged by circumstances to keep it secret from
you for the present. It will deprive me of your
love, your protection, but let it spare me your
sympathy and respect. Leave me that stay in
the midst of my trials. Believe that I am' not
guilty—that I am not untrue.”
BY JOE COES.
PART I.—THE OBSCURE VIEW.
The village of Melton nestled in the centre of
a small, bright little valley; a tiny bit of a town
resembling a small bird’s-nest in the luxuriant
foliage of a large tree. The scenery around was
decidedly worthy of the painter’s gaze; the
rocky’, splashing stream reflecting surrounding
nature in its hurried passage and giving an air
of vivacity and animation to the entire valley.
Within the confines of this romantic village was
the store of Mr. Alfred Langby, a gentleman who
in early life had gained a livelihood from the
tinner’s trade, but being in favor with fate and
fortune, soon had the satisfaction of entering the
business on his own individual account, and at
the time we write, had become so successful that
he was no longer compelled to tronble himself
with the cares of business, the management of Congress and pierced the hearts of his eountry-
»PART II THE BRIGHT VIEW.
Melton was in the midst of one of those exciting
occasions to which all towns are subject at stated
occasions viz. a political campaign. A Con-
gressman was to be elected, and while the office
could be fiiled by hut one man, hundreds of pa
triotic citizens were drifting around, all eager to
assume the responsibilities of the position, not
mentioning a neat little per diem. A meeting of
the citizens was called, and it was this auspi
cious occasion that found Gumming Hall pneked
to excess by the citizens. A committee had been
appointed whose duty it was to snbinit to the
meeting the name of an eligible candidate. The
cominitte retired for a few minutes, when it re
turned amid a breathless silence. The chair
man ascended the rostrum, and in a steady voice
! said:
“ Gentlemen find Citizens, This committee,
after mature deliberation and a careful examina
tion of the merits of the various candidates, have
determined to present for your approbation the
name of a gentleman whose integrity and strict
uprightness will, we have no doubt, guarantee a
unanimous nomination, George Bryan.’
For a second yon could almost hear the wind
whistling through the lea\es of the trees outside,
when there arose such a shout of satisfaction as
had never before emanated from Meltonian
throats, and George Bryan was elected to the Con
gress of the United States. I say elected, for
when a nominee met the approval of Melton
voters, his election was a foregone conclusion—
merely a legal formality. Various and many
were the hands that grasped those of “ Honest
George” in a congratulatory manner; while he,
great, honest, large-souled human that he was,
could only weep. Tears coursed down his
bronzed cheeks, from the heart. Congress was to
meet in one week, and George had little time to
spare. He was accompanied to the station by
old Mr. Langby, whose last words were: “ God
speed you, my boy. Fame and fortune await
you, and its early and honest reception is my
dearest hope;” and they shook hands and parted—
the old man and the boy whom he had brought
up. Then a few weeks after George’s departure,
Alice Cumming inaugurated a series of frequent
visits to Mr. Langby’s; and current gossip said—
it always asks and answers its own questions—
that her visits were always shortly after the re
ception of letters from Washington by Mr.
Langby. Then that great speech by the “Hon.
George Bryan, ” of Melton, that had thrilled all
,, T “ii t - , . , „ ., ,, , ciency in their avocations, and accomplish just
I will, I must speak to you of it, Aleck! ; what their forefathers did. The «rW seeret ef
The great secret of
success in life is to choose some occupation for
which you have both taste and talent, and “stick"
to it. The failure of most of our young men
arises from their stumbling upon some profes
sion for which they have no talent, and against
which their whole natures are a living revolt,
simply because they imagine such profession is
more profitable or more popular than some of
the lower avocations of life.
I do not believe that all men are born equal,
but that all are born for something. All have tal
ents—whether one, five, or ten—for the improve-
He looked at her as she knelt before him, with
Si r Ul l 0f ftn g uish > bllt , cl « a 7 a “ d I rnentof which they are held responsible by the
steadfast. His features were convulsed by the Great Giver ofall y ood . Ever m P aD bns hi / own
twpon rfm rl nrmicc I , • ^
strong struggle within him between tenderness
and suspicion. His mouth relaxed from its
sternness and trembled as he tried to speak.
“Melieent,” he said huskily, “rise. Do not
kneel at my feet in that way.”
He put out his hand as if to raise her, and
touched the soft hair that fell in loose masses
about her! He drew back quickly, as if he feared
M -G.su.A.'d Autfi- JGy- -iters?
He made an effort to regain his self-control. i a t i. ,
,.£«■ , vi . „ , with mankind. Let a man who seems peculiarly
“Since you have had recourse to oaths,” he i Q ^ OT1 f c ^ i *
particular office to fill, just as every tree, every
plant, and every animal, has its own peculiar
functions. If any animal or insect, great or
small, should deviate from its own path,—if any
of these vast systems, or any part of them, which
compose this mighty universe, should pursue a
course contrary to that allotted by an Eternal
his establishment devolving upon his foreman
George Bryan. George was born and raised in
Melton, and had learned his trade at the experi
enced hands of his employer; and by his perse
verance and uprightness, had not only earned
the trust but the confidence of that gentleman.
All had a good word for “Honest George,” a
sobriquet in more general use among those who
knew him than his own sir-name; in fact, when
any one, a stranger, perhaps, addressed him as
Mr. Bryan, the title sounded strange and harsh
on his sensitive ears. Not that George was sen
sitive in the literal construction of the term, but
so accustomed was he to “ Honest George” that
he began to consider it his full name.
In the village also dwelt the wealthy John
Cumming, whom fortune’s smiles had made dig
nified, egotistic, even proud; and his family,
consisting of his wife and one daughter, fully
partook of this spirit. There was no denying it—
Alice Cumming was a beautiful girl; and it is
equally true that her dashing ways had sent
many a pang of admiration and regret through
the hearts of hapless swains. Medium-sized,
full figure, even approaching stoutness, a thor
ough brunette, large, bright eyes and pouting
Godhead,- the effect would be an immediate lips. Oh !_there is no imagining what trouble
ws J5T ini’ fiaturS! If is sit this lauTtless^befng fiad caused in ’ various sus-
; „ , r , • . , adapted, by nature and the bent of his inclina-
said, “take one that I will accept as a test of : • ,, . r
* ,—: tlon - to law, medicine, or agriculture, imagine
commented Colonel Archer, as he closed the J° UT S ™ ar *? f e * hat 5™ have not seen he h ’ as a tal ’ nt for mu ’ ic or “ oet _ an ’ d he % iu
• door, which had not even a lock, and mounting to Colond Archer mnee^you left the i mme diately realize the full import of the well-
i ba !I' 1 - 0 ° m ^ night rf at y ° U haVe had i n ° Pri ' k “own Latin, “Poeta nascetur non fit.”
vate interview with bun since you rode away --- - • •• - - - - J -
from here at midnight.”
She did not speak; she remembered that she
could not do so in a way to command his belief,
his horse, rotle rapidly away.
CHAPTER XII.
The night was nearly spent, the moon was
paling in the sky, as Melieent rode back along
the deserted streets. The ball was not yet over ;
the sound of the merry dance-music reached her
ear from afar. How strangely it sounded !—how
strongly it contrasted with the solemn silence of tures took their set, stony expression once more,
the woods she had just left—with the mournful ! “Enough!” he cried. “Do not perjure your-
cadence of Ishmael’s song, that still rung in her self. Do not speak again.”
PUTS ! Til P SnilTl I* TYl CVM III nn f I A- TJ n a J wv 1, a*, I
Macaulay gives it as his opinion that there is
not so great disparity in the intellects of men as
is generally supposed. True, there may not be
unless she could explain everything; then, feel- Ttbe ^ ^
inu how her silence n,u K t he ’ rew of the hulu ? n ™e, taken as a whole; but there
ing how her silence must be construed, she grew
confused,—a shadow of distress passed over her
are men whose native genius just as far sur-
f»ee Ttmi iV hi il l u Vv- e passes that of others as the towering heights of
face. It looked to his eyes like guilt. His fea- f he Himalav snrnass the Bine b
the Himalay surpass the Blue Ridge.
Says Macaulay: “If Luther had been born in
the tenth century, he would have effected no
reformation. If he had not been born at all, it
The sounds of merriment increased vet He turned from her and flung open the door, [fcvhctth.tthc Tl n ee \ born ataI1 ’ “
more the confusion in Melicent’s brain. The On its threshold he paused and fixed his eyes h„vl V^hcnt *» th , tury could not
nights adventure—was it not a terrible dream? upon her; a look of keen pain came into them „y,nrcb ” f i ,, •
The brief, wild interview with Neil,—his looks, 1 i church. He evidently thinks tl
his tones, when he staggered to her with out
stretched arms, calling her by that name long
dead,—his flight, his arrest,—were they not all
a dizzy vision, caused by that whirling waltz,
whose music seemed to be playing still—that
and mingled with their fierce fire of indignation.
“Melieent Avery,” he said, in the deep, low
utterance of concentrated feeling, “I have loved
you as dearly as ever man loved woman; I trusted
you wholly. You have deceived me,—you have
A „ 0 ruined me. You have turned my love into tor-
waltz with Colonel Archer, when her husband i ture. l’ou have dashed my ambitious hopes to
had watched her with stern eyes, and her part- the ground. You may make me a murderer and
ner, bending down, had whispered in her ear:
“Eureka! the murderer is found !”
She was partially roused from this trance-like
state by the stopping of her horse. He had en
tered the stable-yard, and stood before the door
of his stall. Mechanically Melieent dismounted
and stood beside him. Her brain still reeled
and wild images floated indistinctly before her.
She leaned her arms upon Monsoon’s neck, and
bending her head down upon them, tried to
arouse and collect her numbed faculties. She
started as a hand grasped her arm. She looked
around with a faint cry, and saw her husband.
an outcast,
me 1
God forgive you—you have ruined
_ schism . in the
evidently thinks that if Shakspeare
j had not been bom, or had died in his infancy,
, “Hamlet” would have been written by some one
i else, and the world would have felt no loss for
the great dramatist; that if there had never been
a John Milton, some other poet would have writ
ten “Paradise Lost;” and that if Cabot and Co
lumbus had not been born, the world would
never have been any poorer, for America would
have been discovered by some one else.
He closed the door and left her to the anguish t JAl 8 J ght M be - tTUe ’ - f ° r - n ° °? 6 wiU - den ?
i, oi mat ii tne
of her own reflections. She remained kneeling
moon and stars had not been placed
in the heavens, God could have created some
where he left her, overwhelmed by the tide of l‘ ( jr \\ aC T ,
bitter auj Wil Jeri™ feeling t„’ tLe other means to illumine this dark world of ours;
bitter and bewildering feelings. In the chaos of
her mind, one thought took definite shape.
“I must go away. I have no right to stay here,
to spoil a good man’s life, to soil his name, to
blight his prospects, to torture his heart—it may
be, as he said, to make him a murderer and an
| outcast. I must go away. I must take my evil
fortunes away from this house; I have no right
“Give the horse to me,” he demanded, taking 1° bring a shadow upon it. I am not his wife.
the bridle from her hand.
She did not heed his hoarse, stem tones.
She
Oh ! if I were permitted to tell him this—to say
to him: ‘ I am nothing to you. I have not dis-
flung herself on his breast; the tension of her graced your name, for I do not bear it. I am
overstrained nerves gave w r ay, and she clasped i on ly a cheat—an impostor. Let me go go away,
him convulsively, while her frame shook with ft hd the reproach of my name will drop from
tearless sobs. He lifted his arms as if to clasp
or caress her; then dropped them quicklv to his
side.
“Go to the house,” he commanded. He un
loosed her clinging arms and put her back from
him sternly. “Go to your room at once, and
make as little noise as you can—for your own
sake.
She sighed deeply and turned away. She en
tered the house and found the lamp‘in the hall
burning, but no one there. As she passed along
the corridor she could hear the voices and soft
laughter of the Stanley girls. They had but
just returned trom the ball, and were chatting
over the events of the night as they undressed
“Hush! she heard one of them sav as she
passed their door. “\ou will disturb poor Mrs
Avery.”
She felt like a guilty wretch as she stole to her
room, and taking the key from her pocket, un
locked the door, entered and undressed before
you and your honorable house, and you will be
once more free and happy.’ ”
Then, as if in contrast with the words “free
and happy,” came up the thought of Neil—Neil
in prison, sick and desolate. What now could
be done to help him ? She thought of her father.
Might he not be able to save Neil, if he would?
He was so strong of will, so powerful in his influ
ence over others—and then lie could testify many
.iiings in Neil’s favor. If only he could be in
duced to acknowledge the relationship between
them—to divulge that secret which was so fatal
to her peace of mind.
She rose from her knees, tossed back the blind
ing waves of her hair, and bathed her burning
forehead. When she had grown calmer, she sat
down and wrote her father all that happened—
all that she had done;—disclosed to him. for the
first time, the fact that Neil Griffin still lived;
that he was in prison, about to be prosecuted by
the son of the murdered miner; that, in conse-
anj one came in. Presently Flora rapped softlv quence of her efforts to warn him, she had excited
at the door, turned the handle and peeped in.
“You up, Miss Melieent?” she said, coming
in. “Is your head any better? You look dread-
lul pale. Mr. Avery wouldn’t let me knock at
your door before, for fear of sturbin’ vou. He
said you had come home sick. Whv didn’t you
call me and let me help you undress?”
To Melicent’s eye there seemed to be a suspi
cious keenness in the look with which the girl
regarded her. She answered coldly;
“I did not need you—nor dol'now. There
is nothing I want but to be quiet. You can go
to bed.” 6
W hen the girl had gone, she threw on a dress-
mg-gown and waited for her husband to come
stairs—waited, while moments passed and
noises all died into silence, and the house
the distrust of Mr. Avery. She implored her
father to help Neil Griffin, by means of money,
or through his influence, or by enlisting in the
ease services of talented lawyers that were his
friends. She entreated him, also, to release her
from her promise not to disclose to Mr. Avery
the circumstance of her previous marriage.
“If I could tell him all,” she wrote, “I might
still hope to retain his esteem. In the general
wreck of my life, I might have this one comfort
to cling to. As it is, I have lost all. Write, then,
at once, or send me one word by telegraph say
ing that I may or may not reveal the secret that
weighs upon me like guilt.”
She sealed and addressed her letter in the
same swift, eager manner in which she had writ
ten it The day was now shining into her cham-
but He evidently saw fit to adopt certain instru
mentalities for the accomplishment of certain
: ends.
A little consideration and reflection on the
j great workings of nature furnishes us with irre-
! fragible proofs that each individual has his or
her own mission to fulfill. Let him not, there-
I fore, estop his privileges of success with such
remarks as: “ Because I am not capable of achiev
ing such perfection in my profession as my next
neighbor, I shall make no attempt;” or, “I can
never become a first-class lawyer or doctor, and
I rcill not be a second-class one.” Such an at
tempt at excuses is a gross violation of the laws
of their own natural propensities, and those who
make them do not deserve that success shall
crown their efforts.
Y'ou cannot be too circumspect in choosing
your profession, or abiding by the choice of oth
ers. You are just as responsible for the talent
committed to your charge as the most gifted of
your ancestors, and a requisition will be made
of you in proportion to your opportunities for
improvement.
The Beauty of the Family.—We leave it to
you, if the “beauty of the family” don’t invaria
bly ‘Gum out” the worst of the lot? If she
don’t cultivate the outside of her head to the
total forgetfulness of the inside ? If she is not
petted, and fondled, and flattered, and shown
off ’til selfishness is written all over her ? If she
is not sure to marry some lazy fellow, or drunken
brute who will bruise her body—or—heart to a
jelly, and be glad to come with her forlorn chil
dren for a morsel of bread to the comfortable
home of that snubbed member of the family who
was only “our John” or “Martha,” and who
never, by any possibility, was supposed by them
capable of doing or being anything ? We leave
ceptible bosoms, but it availed nothing; she
seemed utterly indifferent to the attentions of
one and all. Honest George had admired her
too; nay, more—he felt more than admiration
for her—he loved her; but manly fellow that he
was, he reasoned with himself something in this
manner:
“Well, I’m poor George Bryan; she is rich Miss
Cumming; and then she never notices me—if
she did it would be the same, only it would cre
ate a year’s gossip. The idea of ‘ that poor tin
ner’aspiring to the wealthy Alice Cumming.”
The thought was ridiculous even to George
himself, yet he sighed and grew despondent and
morose.
One sunny morning a few months after
George’s mournful soliloquy, Mr. Langby came’
into the store.
“Good morning, George, good morning. All
well ? Glad to hear it.”
George thanked him, when the old gentleman
rattling on, continued:
“By the way, George, old Cumming was
men—a volume of burning eloquence—the mas
ter oration of the session. Fame ? His position
was sublimity itself. But George did not think
himself any better than his fellow-men. True,
he felt a little more dignity, but there was not
an iota’s difference perceptible between the
“Hon, George "and plain George, the tinner—
not the least. Then George got home on leave
of absence for a few days. His first visit, and a
long one at that, was of course devoted to his
old friend, employer and partner. His numer
ous other acquaintances were not forgotten, and
last of all, he ventured to give his card to the
' pompous servant who answered the ring at Mr.
Cumming’s door. He was shown into the par
lor, where he was most graciously, even famil
iarly received by Alice—the same Alice who a
few short years before had superciliously re
marked: “Oh ! you are the man to see about the
roof. ” What a change now! All smiles and
kindness. “ So glad, Mr. Bryan, that yon called.
Do you not know that I have almost envied your
prominence ?” and a score of other pretty things
did this young lady say to George; but they
were wasted—he had no admiration even for her
now. He knew that she entertained the “ Hon
orable,” not George Bryan.
His visit was brought to a close, but not with
out being persuaded that “he must call again,
and so sorry that papa is out of town, for I know
that he would be glad to see you.”
'Off to Wasfhiigtdri again] weeks of lohg mid
persistent labor, and the session was completed.
But George’s return this time was not alone—he
had company; of his companion more will be
said. Reaching Melton, he hastened with his
charge to Mr. Langby’s residence (the only home
he knew), and was admitted by that gentleman
in person.
“ Why—why—George ! That you, old fellow ?
And who have we here ?”
“ Mr. Langby, my wife,” and a vail was raised
from as lovely a face as the sun had ever shone
on. But why need I describe George’s wife?
H' - individuality interests none but George.
2. I will not.
George called at the Cumming’s next day and
handed the servant a card, “Hon. and Mrs.
George Bryan.” The man returned with the
announcement that indisposition confined Miss
Alice to her room, and a call would be appre
ciated some other time. George understood the
matter at once, and back home they went, as
happy as two faithful, loving hearts could make
them. They never called at the Cumming’s
speaking to me this morning about covering the mansion again. George is still living, hale and
roof of his house, and I promised to have you
walk up and see him and give an estimate. Stick
it on well, George; he is able to stand it; plenty
of money—plenty. And by the by, George,’ I
wanted to see you privately this morning, any
way; just walk into the office here a minute,
please.”
Wonderingly George followed. •
“I’m getting old now, George,” began Mr.
Langby, “and am not able to give much atten
tion to the business,” (here George’s heart sank,
thinking that Mr. Langby contemplated retiring
from business). “I find that some younger head
is necessary' to the successful management of the
store, and- to the point, I propose to give you a
half interest in the business, leaving it entirely
in your care.”
With tears of gratitude and surprise, George
thanked him and assured him that he would do
his duty' by' him.
“I had better go up to Mr. Cumming’s at
once?” interrogated George, a blush rising to
his cheek.
“Yes—yes,” said Mr. Langby, “you’d better
go right up.”
George put on his coat, and stopping only a
moment to smooth his hair before the glass,
went out. Walking slowly along the road which
led to Mr. Cumming’s, pondering on the thoughts
uppermost in his mind, he found himself in
front of the house without a consciousness of
how he got there. Aroused from his stupor, he
went up the steps timidly and rang the bell.
The ring was answered bv Alice herself, who, in
poorly-feigned disinterestedness, asked his busi
ness. George was sorely embarrassed, but man-
aged to splutter out:
“Is Mr. Cumming in?”
“Oh ! you are the man to see about the roof,”
answered the wilful beauty. “I’ll call papa di
rectly,” and off she went, leaving George rather |
astounded.
“That ends it,” was his mental conclusion.
“ She cares less about me than she does for her
poodle.”
“ Mr. Cumming’s appearance put a stop to his
thoughts, and the business of the visit was en
tered into, resulting in an award of the contract
to messrs. Langby A Co., work to be commenced
hearty, and delights in telling the wee ones “of
the time when papa was a Congressman. ”
To Yoxjnc. Men on Marriage.—The true girl
has to be sought for. She does not parade her-
| self as show-goods. She is not fashionable.
' Generally she is not rich. But oh ! what a heart
] she has when you find her!—so large, and pure,
i and womanly. When you see it, you wonder if
those showy things outside were really women.
| If you gain her love, your two thousand are a
' million. She’ll not ask you for a carriage or a
first-class house. She’ll wear simple dresses,
and turn them when necessary, with no vulgar
magnificat to frown upon her economy. She’ll
keep everything neat and nice in your sky-par
lor, and give you such a welcome when you
return home that you’ll think your parlor higher
than ever. She’ll entertain true friends on a dol
lar, and will astonish you with the new thought,
how very little happiness depends on money!
She’ll make you love home (if you don’t, you’re
a brute), and teach you how to pity, while you
scorn, a poor fashionable society that thinks
itself rich and vainly tries to think itself happy.
Now, do not, I pray you, say any more, ‘I can’t
afford to marry.’ Go, find the true woman, and
you can ! Throw away that cigar, bum up that
switch cane; be sensible yourself, and seek your
wife in a sensible way. ”—Dr. Crosby.
Emblems of Purity.—We have always noticed
that wherever you find flowers, no matter whether
in a garret or in a palace, it is a pretty sure sign
that there is an inner refinement of which the
■world is not cognizant. We have seen flowers
cultivated and cherished by some of the lowest
and most degraded of our people; even in the
dens of vice you will sometimes find them.
Where these emblems of purity are found, you
may rest assured that they represent a hope and
speak of a goodness of "heart not to be found
where they are absent.
it to you, if the “beauty of the family" be a boy, | as early as practicable. He went back to the
he don’t grow up an ass ? If he is not sure to
disgust everybody with his conceit and affecta
tion, while he fancies he is the admired of all
eyes—even if he don’t squander all the money
he can lay his hands on, and die in the gutter"?
We never see a very handsome child of either
sex, upon the family pedestal to be admired by
that family and its friends, to the exclusion of
the other children, that we do not feel like pat
ting these children on the head and saying:
“Thank providence, my dears, that yon were
not bom * beauties. ’ ”
store in a very perplexed mood, crosfc with him
self and humanity in general, though he never
allowed his own petty annoyances to intrude on
the harmony and good feeling ever existing be
tween himself and employees.
George superintended the work on Mr.’ Cum-
ming's residence, and succeeded in obtaining
several stolen glances at Alice, but when she did
catch his intense gaze, she gave no sign that it
interested her.
And thus wore along the first two weeks of
poor George Bryan's proprietary experience.
Opposition.—A certain amount of opposition
is a great help to man. Kites rise against the
wind, and not with the wind; even a head-wind
is better than none. No man ever worked his
passage anywhere in a dea i .• u u. L -t no man
wax pale, therefore, because of opposition: oppo
sition is what he wants and must have, to be
good for anything. Hardship is the native soil
of manhood and self-reliance. He who cannot
abide the storm without flinching, lies down by
the wavside to be overlooked or forgotten.
In an aristocratic country, labor is the badge
of caste. In a democratic country, it is con
temptible snobbishness which frowns on thej
honest earning of money.