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[For The Sunny South.] LOST. • * BY CHABLE8 W. HUBNER. Life went a maying With Nature, Hope and Poeay, When I wa*» young! W'bec I young! ah. wofui when! Ah. for the change 'twixt now and then! [COLERIlKiK. I stood upon an ocean strand; Bright grains of gold were in my hand; • Fair shone the sun in cloudless sky, And the blithe winds made melody. I heard a Spirit whisper, “Live!" * I heard the glad waves murmur, “Give!" Whereat I cried, “I. too, am glad!" Aud straightway gave them all I had. I only smiled to see how swift The wanton sea-waves snatch'd the gift! Yes, on that soul-enchanting (roast We never know what we have lost; Or if we knew, we would not care— For Paradise is everywhere. Ah me! ye days divinely sweet. No more ye woo our parting feet; And vainly, on that dark’niug coast. We seek the gold so idly lost. [Written for The Sunny South.] FIGHTING AGAINST FATE; OR, Alone in the World. BY MARY E. BRYAN. CHAPTER IV. The woods path was nearly at an end. Esther could see the light from the town gleaming through the trees, not far away. On the hill just above her could be seen the turret-like roof of Dr. Haywood’s pretty, fantastic cottage of “Bachelor’s Roost,” which Esther’s childish hands had helped to beautify in days that now seemed so long ago; where she had planted flowers and trained the vines over the two pagoda-shaped summer-houses she hnd named Iris and Cliarinion (Rainbow and Dove), beneath which he would sit with his bride, forgetting her existence or remembering it with scorn. She paused a moment, set down the heavy valise she carried, and leaning against the rugged trunk of an oak, gazed at the house with eyes full of bitter sadness. “Well, that is over now,” she exclaimed, at length, setting her lips together with an expres sion of stern resolve as she caught up the valise to go. But a hand was laid firmly on her arm. “ Si sir r'mtor," said the musical voice that held a sibillant, serpent charm, and Werter’s lithe figure stepped out of the shadow and stood at her side. She shook off his hand. “ Let me pass,” she said, moving on. _ “As you will," he answered, walking on be side her; “ but you must listen to a few words that may change this mad purpose of yours to go out into the world alone without money, friends, or (forgive me) reputation—to wear out | your life and your genius in a hard, bitter struggle with poverty—in thankless work for others more than for yourself.” “Nothing you can say or do will influence . me.” “Are yon sure of that? An old adage says, ‘Don’t crow until you are out of the woods.’ You and your gallant game bird yonder (point ing towards the town) are not out of the woods yet, I fancy. A word from me ” , She caught her breath hard. What if he really knew her secret, and could set others—set th4 dogs of the law upon its track? But she an swered him bravely: “I do not fear you at all.” , “Not for yourself, but you fear for him— j though he is not your lover, as they all believe. I know that he is not by a subtle, yet sure token. I have read a letter written by you to him, in which you-preached him too cairn a homily tr. be either wife or sweetheart.” “A letter from me to him?” she faltered. “ When ? Where?” “When did I see it? Before I ever met you. AVhere ? In the editorial-room of a New Orleans Daily—tumbled heedlessly and tipsily out of his pocket with a lot of reporter's notes which it was my province as sub-editor to inspect. I found your letter and read it—which was more, I venture, than Bernard had done. Quite a pa thetic appeal, but a trifle prosy. No name signed, but the queer handwriting was not easily forgotten. I recognized yours as the same as soon as I saw it here, and the H. B. confirmed my suspicions.” “Yon came quite honorably by your knowl edge. I hope it proved more interesting to you than this confession does to me. I have no time to waste in discussing it,” Esther said in her coldest and proudest tones, while her heart throbbed wildly with the fear that this letter had betrayed her, though she had tried always to be so guarded when she wrote. “You have no time to waste upon me, whose interest in you is so deep and true, but yon will waste time, and thought and life upon others, through a reckless impulse, a false idea of duty, or a morbid craving for self-immolation—God knows which it is, that moves you to throw yourself away, as you are going to do, for the sake of a woman who is your mother’s natural child, aud a man who is that woman’s husband, and who has violated the laws of the land. You see I know your secret.” As he spoke, he looked keenly into hpr face, fully revealed by the moonlight—keenly, but with a slightly doubtful expression that betrayed he was hazarding a guess. She was self-possessed enough not to move a muscle, though a load was suddenly lifted off her heart. He did not know her secret. He had caught at a clue in her letter, and it had led him astray. His last words, “a man who has viola ted the laws of his country,” gave her room for uneasiness. He continued to look keenly at her face, but it was Sphinx-like in its marble beauty. Her silence assured him that his conjecture was true. He continued: “Y’ou will waste the bloom of your life upon these: you will bruise the wings of your genius in the hard fight against poverty and slander,— you, a bird of Paradise, that should be sheltered in the flowery nest of love and luxury—a child of genius and beauty, who should be placed in a gilded shrine for Art and Love to visit, to re fresh their powers with the infinite variety which is yours more than any woman's I ever met. Such a shrine,” he continued, dropping his voice to a low, persuasive whisper, “as I would give you, if you would but listen to reason— no less than passion—if you would be mine." She threw out her hand with a quick, indig nant movement. He affected not to notice it. “You are wondering where I am to find the gold to gild such a shrine,” he continued—a vagabond like myself, with no capital but good looks and assurance, and a modionm of brains. Bnt many things are to be won by these—the golden apple of fortune, among the rest. Do ; you not see that this hangs within my reach— that it is quite ready to drop into my hands, though it hangs on another man’s wall? To discard metaphor, do you not see that the heiress, i Miss Leigh, the fiancee of our good friend John, decidedly prefers the impudent adventurer, as she called me, to her bridegrom—model of all the moralities though he be. She would give herself to me—herself, and what is better—her (fortune. Marriage is a great bore, but half a i million of money reconciles one a little to the absurd institution, which, after all. doesn’t im- she follows him off after he was expelled frolb college in disgrace, and we hear from her that He has not seen ?" No. he has not seen him; I had to tell him pose any great obligation in these latter days of there was a sick gentleman stopping here till she is ruined: for he put the climax on his vil- reform. The gold would buy immunity from to-morrow, when he would get away on the i lainy by making her believe she was never evening train.” work, which I own I hate like poison, and it would purchase luxury and beauty: best of all, it would comfortably gild a little cage for yon, my bird of Paradise, among the vines and olives of Italy, where you could feed your gifts of song married to him lawfully—that it was a sham “ He must go before to-morrow. There is risk ceremony, and she had no claim upon him.” in his staying here an hour longer." “ Father, he did it when he was desperate and “ I know it: I have been trembling with dread j half mad. It was just before his arrest.’ all dav. I have his clothes ready, and I will and poetry on divinest beauty, instead of setting pack his traveling-bag right away.” out to drudge for bread on the flinty highway, with slander to hound and tear you. Don't yon see how much better that would be—even set ting aside my love?” How is he to-night ? His wound is'better. and he is sitting up. but he is so restless and nervous it makes him fever- AVere you to blame for that ? Why did he not stab you at once instead of making you en dure all the shame and misery you have borne?” “Father!” Ellen, bringing a tray of toast and a little steam ing teapot which she set down by the fire. Holding to her dress was little- Willy, who ran to Esther when he saw her, but kept shyly peep ing at the handsome, whiskered stranger in his mother’s rocking-chair. “ He would not go to sleep until he had kissed his new papa good-night," Ellen said, with a fond, tearful glance from the child to the father he had never known till within the past few days. "Come to me, my boy,” said Bernard, holding ish. I think he is uneasy, but he will not own he was her brother. Well, he is dead, and I “I beg Miss Craig’s pardon. I had forgotten out his hand to the child, who at once ran to 'For mercy’s suk", «lo not talk implore;! Ellen, clinging to his arm, while the child looked up at. him with wondering eyes She had walked on steadily, while h; talked and walked at her side. Now she stopped and turned full towards him, pushing hack the hat from her brow that he might see the determined look in her face. “Does vanity blind you so utterly,” she cried, ‘that you caunot see how I scorn your insult- it. Oh, I wish he had never come! It was run- | ning sush a risk. Aud then to get wounded and bring himself to be noticel! There were men to see him t >-d vy —a reporter an 1 two others. They might hive been strangers to him, but mv heart was ready to burst with apprehension all the time for fear they would se • through his ing proposals? Can you not see how contempt- ■ disguise and recognize him.” ible your own words make you— traitor to the most generous of friends, deceitful fortune- hunter, would-be tempter of an unfriended woman? I despise you utterly I Leave me! I will stand your persecution no longer. Go, do and say your worst.” She turned from him an l walked rapidly away—her heart swelling with the bitter sense of humiliation. As she neared a little, half- dilapidated cottage on the outskirts of the town, she glanced at the light shining dimly They might do so with more ease if there was any suspicion that he was alive, hut there is none, I think—I trust,” murmured Esther. Tue conversation hai'heeu carried on in a tone scarcely above a whisper. hope forgiven, as 1 pray to be able to forgive him myself, but when I think of what that child might have been if her life hadn’t been spoiled b y a “Father, you are talking so loud, you have disturbed the sick lodger in the next room. I hear him moving about. Dear Esther, will you go in and see if he wants anything, while I put little Willy to sleep ? It is time you was in bed too, father.” “Yes, I must be up early and help you to fix to get away from here. I will take her and the boy to our new home, Miss Craig, away from If he goes before to-morrow, it must be on the the scene of all these misfortunes. It will be through its windows. Her step slackened; her j let me go with him?” two o’clock train to-night, and it is now nearly eleven. I must pack these things and make him a cup of tea and some toast,” said Ellen, rising, and putting the clothes into the travel ing-bag. “Oh, Esther, do you think he would set lips relaxel; tears forced themselves between her lids. “Ah ! wall,” she sighed, “this is but one step on the thorny road that lies before me. Let it pass. ” CHAPTER V. It was the house which Mr! Haywood had spoken of as disreputable—the house which the respectability of Melvin held in such virtuous horror that when the girl-occupant, who had come to the town a stranger, telling to incredu lous ears a piteous story of wrong but not of shame, and finding shelter within the rickety walls before tenanted only by rats—when this 1 being a burden upon him—a clog and a care to I thought you were going to Oregon with j'our father, Ellen.” “I don’t know; I can’t tell what is best,” she answered, tears springing into her eyes. “ Wil lard—Harvy, I mean, (for I must not call him Willard) says that I must go with my parents—that it is best for little AVilly’s sake; that he does not know what may happen to him; he has not money to take us away—out of the country, and we would have to live under a cloud; iu obscurity and constant fear of worse. I don’t mind that; I am used to it—used to bearing it all alone, too—and shared with him it would not be so hard. But what I dread is unhappy young creature gave birth to a child, and lay at death’s door for many days, not a pitying hand among the reputable of her sex was extended to her assistance, and she would have perished for lack of woman’s attention, had not some of the fallen sisterhood—pariahs of the town—found out hersituation and nursed her and her babe as tenderly as though they (the pariahs) had been leading members of the Ladies’ Benevolent Association, which was at that time giving a fair for the benefit of the Chinese mission. And for this circumstance of being nursed and brought back to life by outcasts, the young creature was still more completely ostracised, and her claim to respectable consideration ut terly scouted. It was at this house that Esther now ended her night-walk. She went around to the back part of the house and entered the little rear room that served as a kitchen, from whose win dow streamed the light of a lamp. The wood- fire falling into glowing blocks on. the hearth, the ironing-board on the covered table, and the pile of freshly-ironed shirts told the story of the night-work on which the lamp had shed its light. The work was done now, however, and the worker sat with her head bowed down upon the table, and a traveling-bag beside her. She turned around at the sound of Esther’s en trance, and disclosed a pale, pretty, girlish face wet with tears. She rose up, hastily wiping her eyes and smiling affectionately at Esther. She threw her arms around her, exclaiming : “ Dear Esther, I am so glad you have come. Something has happened since you were here last night. Father has come for little Willy and me—come all the way from Oregon, where, they moved last year, you know. The last let ters I wrote —so long ago—only reached them a few days before he started here. They were not forwarded to the right address, and went every where. Father has come on purpose to take me home with him. He has forgiven me. He be lieves now that I was really married. You know they would never read what I wrote at first; they sent back the letters unopened, and then they moved away—I did not know where. But he believes me now; be has seen my marriage certificate that you . got for me, and little Willy has been sitting on his knee. I have told him all about ” “Ellen, you have not surely told him his secret—you have not told him "that Will—that he is not dead ?” asked Esther under her breath. “No !«oli no, I have not told him that; I dared not, though I am sure my father would never betray it for my sake. But he feels dreadfully against him; he says he can hardly forgive him in his grave." him with all his other troubles. B at oh ! Esther, if he would only let me go with him, I would work, and I would endure everything cheer fully. I caunot bear to see him go away—sick and miserable as he is !” -y Her mouth quivered like a child’s, and she dropped her head upon the table. Esther bent over her, and put her arm around her neck. “Perhaps he will be able to come for you in a little while, dear Ellen. He has promised to the happiest day of her poor mother’s life. She has always taken it to heart that I treated the child as I did—sent back her letters unread after that first one. It nearly broke her heart to move off West an l leave her. She was our baby, you know. I couldn’t bear the old home after her misfortune; I never could feel like holding up my head among the neighbors, as I had done before.” Ellen persuaded her father off to bed, and Es ther made her way to the room of the “sick lodger,” which was separated from the kitchen by only a partition. The solitary occupant sat by a table, on which he leane 1 with his right arm; his hand supported his head, while the fingers were thrust through the mass of curling hair, whose jetty hue contrasted singularly with the whiteness of his forehead and with his large, gray eyes. His left arm hung in a sling; he wore a dressing-gown drawn carelessly around him, and thrown open at his throat, which was full aud round, and white as a womiu’s. On the table close at his hand lay two rather incon gruous things —a loaded pistol and a fresh Mal- maison rose. As Esther entered, he lifted his head and held out his hand, saying : “AYeleome, my Esther—sweetest name-sake of the Jewish Queen; “have you come all this way to see your poor Mordecai again? But it’s j , H , T Hainan rather than Mordecai, isn’t it? I have J lefti reform, and I trust he will have firmness to keep ] just been listening to an edifying sketch of my his word. He has seen his child now, and he has found how faithful you have been, and what you have suffered because of him. But human resolve cannot always be depended on, and I think it is best you should go with your father for the present. Think what a sweet rest you will have in a safe home-shelter, with a mother’s love to heal all the bruises of past hard fortune. It is best for the child, too. You must think of him. It is right to give him every advantage to grow up strong, and healthy and happy” She had touched the right chord; the mother's face brightened: she looked up with something like a smile in her tear-filled eyes. She was about to speak when the door opened, and a tall, gray-haired old gentleman entered the room, holding in his arms a pretty, curly-haired child in his.long, white night-gown, with one rosy foot peeping out. One round cheek was a deep- pink, where he had lain upon it as he slept. He stretched out his arms to his mother as soon as he caught sight of her. “There, young man, I hope you are satisfied,” said the old gentleman, as he relinquished his burden. “ I had dropped to sleep on the lounge after you went out, Ellen; I was waked up by a touch on my face, and there he stood like a minia ture g'lost, or a night-gowned cherub.and wanted information concerning the whereabouts of his mama. I tried to rock him to sleep, but his eyes kept getting wider. Evidently, he took me to be a strange animal, and did not particu larly admire my grizzly whiskers.” •• Father,” said Ellen, “this is Esther Craig, moral character given by my affectionate father- in-law in yonder. It wasn’t overdrawn, I confess; still, it’s not cheerful to have a mirror held up to one’s defects. I’m a worthless villain, as he says. It’s a pity that fellow’s knife last night hadn't gone a few mere inches to the right.” “ I thank God that it did not. I am very glad to find you able to be up, but you are stillfever- ish; your head is quite hot. Does your arm pain you much?” “Nothing to complain of—it’s only deucedly annoying. I have lain in bed with it long enough. I want to get away from here; I must go to-morrow.” “You must go to-night,” said Esther firmly. “Why?” he asked quickly. “Is there dan ger?” “Yes, there is risk iu your staying a day—an hour longer?” “I shall never be taken alive again,” he said, with a glance at the pistol. “ One barrel is for old Haywood, if I can get a sight at him, and the other for myself.” “ Oh ! Willard, how can you talk so recklessly after all that has befallen you?” him and was clasped to his breast “Poor little man,” he said, .gently stroking the curly, flaxen head, “does he really care for papa ? A poor papa it is, that never has brought any good to him or his little mother—only harm and sorrow. A poor papa, my boy, that you can never even call by his true name ! Could you kiss such a papa?” The child unhesitatingly put his arm around his father's neck and laid his little rosebud mouth to the mustached lips. A tear rolled down the man’s cheek, and he pressed the little one again to his heart “ He must not forget papa when he goes to Ore gon with his grandfather.” “Me go with ’oo,” said the child, clingyig to him. He looked over at Ellen. “He learned that from you, Nelly,” he said, “l'es,” she answered, coming to him, sitting down upon the footstool at his feet and leaning her head against his knee. He learned it from me; and I repeat his words. We will go with you— if you will let us.” “ You followed me,, you trusted to me once, poor child, and what did you get by it? Hus bandly love and protection, or desertion and neglect ? Would you trust me again ?” “I would go with you to the end of the earth,” I she answered presently, with her large, child like, tender eyes raised to his face. He seemed j touched by that look of confiding love. “ It is said that nothing but a dog will lick the hand that has just struck him, but I’ll be sworn if women—some women, at least—won’t do the , same. What a waste of devotion it is !” After a pause, he continued : “No, Nellie, my true-hearted little wife, it would be adding more wrong to that I have already done you, to take you with me now and make you lose the certainty of a good home and the loving care of your parents for yourself and the child. I have no money and no surety of get ting into any employment, and I don't know what may happen to me in the next few days— what may follow on the heels of this last mad a Iventuro of mine—coming back here under the guise of Signor Klatts, leader of the circus orches tra, that I might take a bird’s-eye view through my fiddle-bow of my childhood’s friends who were so anxious to clap me in the penitentiary three years ago, and who grieved so for the loss—of the reward, when the yellow fever took me out of the. Sheriff's clutches; coming back, too, for the purpose of getting a stolen look and a for giving kiss from you and my noble Esther. “No, dear child,” hi went on, laying his hand on Ellen’s head, and speaking in his winning, caressing way, “I won’t do you the further wrong of taking you and this little one with me, | now, when I am drifting out without sail or an- l chor, and can hear breakers ahead. I’ll come : for you another time. I’ll reform; I will make a d ;sper.it‘» effort for your sake, my long-suffering love, and this little child’s. I’ll rake together money enough to get us away—to soma other country: t and I will come and claim you—court you over again and marry you at your father’s, under my new name and fame. Won’t that be romance, eh?” and he lifted her chin and smiled down into her face. She smiled sadly in answer, and shook her little head. “ You think I will be a burden to yon, and I know I am not worth much—not brave, and smart, and strong like Esther; but oh ! you will need somebody to cheer you up, to make some kind of home for you, if it’s only in one poor little room, and to tend yon when you are sick, aud when you get into one of those terrible fits of blues—after ” “After I have had a spree—that’s what you mean, Nelly. You are right, I do need looking after then; or, may be, I am better let alone; for if I did take my last look at life through a pistol barrel then, it would be better for myself and all eoao-wne l.” “ You hear that?” exclaimed Ellen, shudder ing and turning a look of alarm upon Esther. “Oh ! indeed he ought not to be left to himself, weak and low-spirited as he is now, to be preyed upon by those dreadful thoughts. I must go with him; he must not go away alone !” “He shall not go alone,” Esther said, laying her hand upon the young wife’s shoulder, and looking earnestly into her eyes; “I am going I with him.” j “You, Esther? Will you leave Haywood?” “No,” said Bernard, “she will not think of leaving it. I will not accept such a sacrifice. | You have done aud suffered enough for me, ] Esther; you shall not leave a home of comfort | and luxury—leave opportunities for culture and refinement, to wander about the world with me ! and share my desperate fortunes.” “I have nohom3,” returned Esther. “I have no choice but to go with you, or to fight life’s | battle alone.” “What is that you say, Esther? Have you ~ ~ Lodge?” have left it forever. I would not be allowed to pass its threshold again.” “ For what reason ?” “I will tell you, since you will have to know. My meetings with you have been seen, and an evil construction put upon them. I was seen to meet you at the edge of the woed night before last, and go with you into the circus tent. I was watched au l followed, and therefore known in spite of my double vail aud muflflings. Then I was seen to visit you here last night—seen by Mr. Haywood and others. This morning, in the presence of some persons he had assembled, he demanded an explanation: I did not, I could not give him any, and he ” “He ordered you from the house; he branded you publicly with disgrace; all through me. Oh, my God ! what a wretch I am !” he exclaimed, springing to hisfe3t. “ I have not only wrecked m/self, but all who care for me. I have ruined the li ves of two of the noblest and truest women that ever devoted themselves to an unworthy villain. I have destroyed their happiness, blighted their prospects forever, and given them over to slander an I-scorn. All to keep a mer ited punishment from falling on my own head. Because I know that he is the cause of all j But it shall not be; I will go to-morrow and give that has befallen me. I lay my ruin at his doir. . myself up to justice. I will end this miserable He drove me to desperation with his cold- I farce. I will proclaim the truth, and the wrongs blooded, systematic, underhanded tyranny. ! and innocence of you both shall be plain. Bet- He thwarted, and taunted and persecuted me, j ter the chain-gang — the ” aud held up mv faults on all occasions, till he J “Oh! Willard, for mercy s sake do not talk so . poisoned every wholesome spring of my nature. 1 implored Ellen, clinging to his arm, while the You know he was the cause of my being expelled child looked up at nim with wide, wondering from college. They were going to pardon a I tol 1 you of. She has been my best— almost j wild scrape—that was common enough, hut it my only friend. I owe mv life to her. I think.” ] reached his ears, and he must forthwith impress The old gentleman beat his head low before Esther, and raised her hand to his lips. “Miss Craig,” he said, “I thank you from the depths of a much-humbled heart. When father and mother forsook her. you took her up. It was a cruel thiug for parents to do, but we thought she had disgraced herself, and it was such a blow. We were so proud of her, and to it upon the faculty that I needed the punish ment of expulsion as a wholesome lesson. He was envious because I outstripped his pattern son—the lamb-faced John.” “ John never shared such a feeling, I am sure. He is too generous and high-souled,” Esther said, impulsively. Yes, I know. He was a saint ready-male, think she had thrown herself away, and broken i fr > n the time he wore long clothes; only I can’t her ol l parents’ hearts for the sake of a villain ; appreciate his perfections; of course it is because He had the tongue of Belial, or he could never j I am so wicked myself—and not ■” have made so good a girl consent to a secret ! He broke off abruptly, and threw a startled marriage; and we, suspecting nothing, won over glance at the door, the haulle of which had by his handsome face and off-hand ways, until i been turned by some one without. It wa3 only eyes. Esther, who had before vainly tried to inter rupt this outbreak of remorseful feeling, suc ceeded at last in arresting it by her earnest, warning look and the firm gra3p she laid upon his hand. “Be calm,” she said, “you are doing yourself an injury, aud you are speaking more loudly than you think. " If there sa > ild be listeners—” Instantly, he glanced around, the startled look leaping into his eyes. He rau to the window, threw it open, anl looked in every direction. /•thout a word, he returned to the fire-place, sat down and bent his face upon his hand. Esther came up to him aud put her arm aroun d his neck; giving her other hand to Ellen, she said cheerfully: