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[For The Sunny South.] QUESTIONS. BY CLARA DARGAN M ‘LEAN. What shall I say to thee, my sweet ? What may I say to thee ? I love thee ? Say, those were but light And foolish words for my love's might; I would Bay more to thee. What shall I give to thee, my love ? What can I give to thee ! Youth's buds and blossoms all are dead; But there is ripe fruit in their stead,— That will I g.ve to thee. How shall I pray for thee, my own ? What dare I ask for thee ? A life of joy—a path of flowers— So care or pain—no clouds nor showers,— Will God give this to thee? Ah! not thus will I pray, beloved,— Too small such boon would be; “ Father, let us go hand iu hand Together to the distant land!'’— Heaven’s both for thee and me! Yobkville, South Carolina. Having “set things to right,” Copley pro- a scant mustache and a medical-student look, ceeded to dress himself more carefully than was Esther instantly recognized Zoe, the bewitching his usual custom—brushing his well-worn suit almost fiercely, coaxing his thick, unruly locks equestrienne and trapeze performer, who had been the cause of Harvey’s sudden infatuation to keep the desired position, and standing for ; for the circus, several minutes before the little square dressing- 1 Esther saw the girl change color as she met glass, trying to adjust his necktie to suit him. his stern look, though she nodded in a laugh- r Writ ten for The Sunny South.] FIGHTING AGAINST FATE; OR, Alone in the World. BY MARY E. BRYAN. CHAPTER VIII. That walk under the softest of starlit skies, through the beautiful Southern city ablaze with gaslight and full of busy motion and wonderful commingling of sounds, and faces, and draper ies, and picturesque occupations—such as fruit vending, flower selling, chestnut roasting, and corn popping all carried on in the open air, —that walk was full of enchantment to Esther’s inex perienced eyes. She had come provided with a vail, but she threw it up impulsively, and threw off care and dread for the moment. “ Even bats Then, he surveyed his brown, homely, honest face with a dissatisfaction that was new to him, and heaving a sigh, turned from the mirror and took the guitar from its case. He examined it carefully, tried the strings, and wiped every grain of dust from the wood-work with the old j red silk handkerchief that had been wrapped i around it. Then, he consigned it again to the I case, which he proceeded to muffle up in paper before taking it with him, for there were teasing j youngsters among the boarders, who were in the | habit of joking tiie little local concerning his | musical propensities. He found Harvey in Esther’s room, lying on the lounge in his dressing-gown, and smoking lazily as he watched Esther's deft fingers mend ing a rent in bis coat. Copley had stealthily set down the guitar in Harvey’s room, and as he sat looking at Esther and trying to answer her friendly questions, he was revolving in his mind the best way to introduce the guitar to her con sideration and acceptance. Harvey broke into his plans by going into his room for a fresh cigar and stumbling over the bundled-up instru ment. “What in the mischief is this?” he asked, gently pushing it to the door with his foot. “Did you bring it here, Copley ?” “Oh, pray don’t!” cried Copley, starting up and coloring violently. “Don't be—be so rough with it!” “ Why, what is it? An infernal machine, ora corpus '! Have you turned body-snatcher, and are you on your way to some Dr. Knox? Thun der ! I believe it’s alive ! Wasn't that a groan ?” and he gave the bundle a push with his foot. “Pray — pray don’t, Harvey!” appealed the little local, in an agony of apprehension and em barrassment. “I—it’s my guitar. I thought I would bring it for you to play on.” “For me to play on? Why, you know I never touch a guitar.” “ I mean your sister—Miss Esther.” “Certainly,” Esther said, coming to his relief; “I will play for you with pleasure.'' “Then let me unwrap the mummy,” Harvey said; and he proceeded to take off the paper mufflings, open the case, and lift out the really pretty instrument. Copley was delighted when ingly defiant, yet lialf-deprecating way. Copley noticed nothing of this little episode. He was going over in his mind the most off-hand way of excusing himself for not going in, as hav ing no ticket beside the one he had given Har vey for Esther, he could not do. At length, as if struck by a sudden thought, he said: “I believe I will have to leave you here, after all. I have an engagement that I must positively The curtain rose again, and the buzz of voices i was silent. Copley saw Esther’s mouth quiver and her brow contract in the effort to suppress j the pain caused by the scene through which she ; had just passed. “I am afraid you are no better,” he said. “Would you like to go home?” She rose without speaking, and put her hand I upon his offered arm. When they were half-way home, he ventured to ask her: “Was that gentleman a friend of yours?” “He was the best friend I ever had beside my mother, and I have lost him forever,” she an swered in a faltering voice. Copley felt profound sympathy for her, though he failed to fathom the cause of her distress. He fulfill. I’ll meet you here in a couple of hours.” i longed to know if this tall, handsome, fair-haired stranger had not been more to her than a friend, “Take Esther in yourself: I have but he would probe no further. I TO BE CONTINUED. ) No,” said Harvey, thrusting the ticket into his hand. something to attend to just now. I have a few words for this fair lady here,” and he strode across to the side of the little equestrienne and grasped her by the arm. “What do you want with me?” she asked, turning pale, but trying to laugh as she drew away from him. “Dr. Somers, I appeal to you ! Will you stand by and see me treated so?” | “What do you mean. sir. by intruding your- : Angel as she is, woman is pretty generally at self ” began the young man, but Harvey cut the bottom of all the trouble, and then, woman- [For The Sunny South.] LOVE UNDER THE ( ODE. BY H. K. SHACKLEFORD. <;ome out of their hiding places and fly about '• and enjoy themselves at night,” she thought. ! So she enioved the scene to the full of her largely j receptive nature, admiring without envy the ; l jre | t .v instrument. Aopley was rteiig bright dresses and jewels and the beautiful faces Esther took it and praised its tone, of the wearers. They passed an illuminated building, around which swept a broad gallery, adorned along its J whole length with boxes containing tall, bios- j . - „ . , , soming plants,-cape jessamines, roses and ole- overhead and the stream of people flowing below, anders. Interspersed among these, were small j E^er P la >ed and «“»g until little Copley was exalted into the seventh heaven of delight, “ Let us go out on the balcony and serenade Mr. Schiff, the old clothes dealer across the street,” Harvey said. So they sat out on the balcony, with the stars h were seated figures and faces that, seen [ when at last he had said good-night, and was e soft light among the roses and jessamines, going away, Esther called to him: ed beautiful and dream-like.* “ Enough so ‘‘^ ou are leaving your guitar, Mr. Copley. Interspersed among tables glittering with silver and glass, around which in the w w seemed beautiful and dream-like.* “Enough to serve as a tableau of the gods feasting on Olympian heights,” thought Esther, as she looked up and saw them. They were only ordi nary mortals eating their ice cream on the gal lery of the “Grand Saloon” for the sake of the fresh air, by no means too cool ill this semi tropic city even in October—so Copley assured ; her; and he ventured to ask'if she would not go in and have a plate of ice cream, though it was a luxury he had never allowed himself in all his life. His earnings as local attache of a tri-weekly paper just struggling into notice were rather mea gre, and, after paying for his lodging and very simple meals, they went to the support of a wid owed invalid mother and young sister in the . country. Esther declined the ice cream. She preferred to listen to the music of the orchestra, that floated out from the theatre not far away. As ■ they walked on, her passion for music was feasted from another source. Zerlein’s Temple of Music was lighted up and thrown open, and 1 around and inside it a little crowd had collected to listen to a German performing on one of the grand pianos that with harps, organs, melodeons and other instruments, were exhibited for sale. | The performer was short and thick, with an ab surdly huge nose, that nearly touched the keys as he bowed his head and swayed his body to keep time with the music, with the usual profes sional abandon. But Esther hardly noticed his ludicrous motions or contortions of visage, so absorbed was she in the grandly tender symphony j he was playing. She listened with her fine brow | thrown up, and her eyes lighted. At the close, she pressed Harvey’s hand and looked at him with glistening eyes. “You love music even better than I do, Es ther,” he said. “Y'ou should hear some of our really fine performers and singers. Strakosch will give a concert in a day or two. He has Madame De Williorst, Madame Strakosch, and a younger sister of hers, a youthful prodigy, with him. The music will be glorious. You must hear it—mustn’t she, Cop?” “Yes, indeed,” responded Copley, fervently; and he resolved that he would manage to convey to her, through Harvey, his own ticket, which, j as a member of the press, would be furnished free. It seemed to him to be a duty as well as a privilege that he should interest himself in Har vey’s sister. He had fallen into the habit of looking after Harvey, —of helping him out of difficulties, lending him money when he could spare it, and taking care of him when he had one of his periodical “spells” of dissipation. He had given up his cot to Harvey many anight, and gone to bed supperless that he might set an appetizing meal before his erratic charge, and keep him away from the cafe or drinking saloon, whither he tended. When Harvey returned from his short escapade with the circus troop, and coming directly to his friend’s room, as usual, told him that he had brought his sister to the city to stay with him, and that he intended to mend his ways and be a comfort and support He turned around and looked at her appeal ingly. “I—I didn’t intend to take it home,” he stam mered. “You don’t want to be troubled with it to night? Well, I’ll take care of it until you come for it. ” “lam not coming for it at all—never!’' said Copley, with energy; “if you, I mean if Harvey, would be so kind as to let it stay.” “Oh, yes !" laughed Harvey, who understood the situation; “ we'll give it house-room. Come up occasionally and see if we keep it in tune.” CHAPTER IX. On the night of the Strakosch concert, Copley presented himself in Harvey’s room an hour be fore the time. He had to wait. Harvey was out, and when he came his 4 friend s«w at. a ghmee that he was in one of his gloomy moods. He spoke shortly and cynically. He had a ticket for the concert, of course, he said, and he sup posed he should have to go to report about it, : but it would be a deuced bore —going to see a lot of painted men and women scream and make hideous taces. He had rather go to bed by half. “But your sister?” urged Copley. “She has no business there. She has no money, in the first place, to buy a ticket ” “I have brought one for her,” said Copley, i taking from his vest pocket the only ticket he , had been able to procure. “ Then she has no dress fit to wear to such a place, and I shan’t have her making a spectacle of herself.” Coplej' glanced at Esther, who had just opened the door and now stood in the entrance. In his i eyes, she looked elegant enough, as she stood there in her gray merino dress, to attend a ; queen’s ball. “I care little about going,” she said, quickly noticing the cloud on her brother's face and dreading the probable cause. “Come, bring your violin, and let us have a concert of our 1 own.” “No,” he answered, “I am going to-night, and I wish you to go, too - if you care for it. But your dress ” “Never mind. If that is all, I can perhaps ! manage so that you will not be ashamed of me,” j she said, shutting the door between them. Then she took out the black silk, her only other dress. It was a thick, soft fabric, trimmed ; with black lace, with soft white tulle at the throat ; and waist. She clasped it at the neck with a pin made of a single coral branch, and with an other spray of coral, she fastened a rich black lace vail upon her head. Unfolding from its small bundle a crape shawl that had been her mother’s, and which still held the sandal-wood fragrance of the box in which she had been wont to keep it, she shook out its soft, creamy folds, wrapped it around her, and opening the door of her brother’s room, she said: “Ready, Messeurs.” Harvey was surprised out of his sullen humor, to her, Copley shed tears of joyful congratula- and went to meet her, exclaiming: lation, and felt his pity and kind feeling at once go out to the motherless girl who was a stranger in the wide city, and hail only such a frail reed to lean on as “poor, dear Harvey.” At first sight of her sweet face, he was filled with admi ration, and when she smiled on him kindlv as “Shade of Cinderella ! where did you conjure up all this magnificence? Not frem the depths of that solitary satchel, surely ! Cop, hasn’t she got handsome eyes ?” Copley crumpled his hat and twisted his coun tenance into various shapes in his effort to ex- her brother's friend, and looked at him with press himself in a manner to do justice to his those great, dark eyes half-proud, half-appealing in their expression, she bound him to her a slave for life. He hurried through his work the next day that he might go to see Harvey in the evening and take the guitar lie designed as a present to Es- feelings on the subject. He tailed to elicit but a single word, and that the very last he intended to say. He could have strangled himself for ap plying to the eyes, of that grand-looking girl such an epithet as “stunning.” It was too early for the theatre, and Harvey ther. He had finished his frugal supper of advised his sister to go down and get a cup of bread and toasted cheese and a cup of excellent He prided himself on making good tea, tea. As she took her place at the table at mad- ame’s right hand, that lady was profuse in com plimentary smiles and nods. “I am delighted to have you go to-night, to hear such good music,” she said, “ you sing so well yourself. Harvey tells me that musical talent is a heritage with you both, from your mother. He is a musical genius himself, if he would but study. Did he tell you that we sang in opera together once ? I was so charmed with liis voice and his acting that I have been under his spell 7 ever since. He could secure a good paying en- seeing his seat occupied and himself unnoticed, tea. and the tiny tin pot setting on the little stove emitted the true fragrant aroma. He proceeded to clear away things in his usual neat, particular way—tucking his scanty stock of crockery, nicely washed, under the chintz curtain which was tacked across a box nailed against the wall— at once a shelf and receptacle. The box was neatly papered on the outside, and the chintz curtain was bright and clean. So was a cracker box also papered, and furnished with a lid, w _ which set iu a corner of the room, and into gagement here in any of the orchestras' during j had d'rawn back a step, saw her gesture and in- him short. “I don’t want a scene, young fellow,” he said, with a flash of his steel-blue eye; “but if you interfere, I’ll be sure to knock you down.' I want only to speak with this girl' for ten min utes; after that, she may go to Beelzebub, for aught I care. He drew her away as he spoke. She went with him, tossing her head a little and looking back 1 j with a contemptuous grimace at her quondam i escort, who was standing still, cowed by Har vey’s determined look and tone. As the two stepped out upon the street, Harvey looked back and cried out to his friend, who was staring dis- j consolately after him: “Go ahead, Copley ! I’ll lie in after awhile.” j Copley offered his arm to Esther, and she took it in silence. “ We had better go in,” he said. “ It will do no good to follow him; he will have his way. ! ; That unlucky girl! I thought she had gone with Blaine’s circus to California. It's too bad for | her to turn up now, wipe-. Harvev is doing so well.” ' “Mr. Copley, is she—what kind of person is she?” asked Esther, hesitating? “She's a Spanish girl, come over from Cuba with her brother. I don’t think she’s really bad, ; but she's a flirting, giddy thing. She has a bad influence over Harv ey, and has got him into i more than one scrape. She is not the sort of j girl for him to associate with, much less to marry.” “Marry!” thought Estlier. bitterly, as she re- I called the devotion of peor, neglected Ellen. She hardly gave a glance at her novel sur roundings—at the lofty, carved ceiling, the fres coed walls of the theatre, the tiers of faces, the classic painting upon the curtain that swayed before the scene. Her eyes were full of care and the shadow of foreboding. As he looked atlier, Copley—who also had strong misgivings about Harvey—heartily wished that Zoe had broken her neck in a tumble from her favorite trapeze, or from the back of “Desert Wind,” her “Arabian” horse (he had never sniffed a breeze of Arabia), that always figured on the show placards as a gigantic steed with fiery eyeballs, flying at wild speed, with Zoe dancing a pas seal on his back. When the curtain had risen, however, and the performance begun, music exercised its wonted spell over Esther, gradually absorbing her. to the exclusion of all personal feelings. She lost herself in the enthusiasm of the true artist, and leaned forward, listening, the vail that had shaded her face thrown back in her unconscious earn estness. * _ .t __ Suddenly, the magnetism of a gaze drew Tier eyes from the stage, and attracted them in its direction. She met the earnest, grave eyes of Dr. Haywood. Her heart gave a wild bound; a thrill and shiver passed through her frame that caused her companion to look up quickly into her face. “You are not well,” he said. “What shall I do for air, or “The water, please,” she answered faintly. As Copley made his way through the crowd, the curtain fell and the hum of voices filled the room. Dr. Haywood rose, quietly approached Esther, and sat down beside her. “I have found you,” he said, in an under-tone full of concentrated emotion, while (mindful of the eyes around him) he took up her fan and began quietly to fan her. “Why have you done s*o?” she asked in a pas- ■ sionate whisper. “ Why have you followed me—tracked me like this? What right had you?” “ The sacred right of friendship—the right imposed by a mother’s dying charge.” “ Your following me is useless. I would not return to Haywood if I could. I would not leave the protection I am under. ” “What is the nature of that protection, Es ther ?” She was silent, and he continued: “I discovered where you lodged; I went there an hour ago, and learned you were here. I found ” “ What?” she asked, in deep agitation. “That you boarded there, under the care of a man who called himself your brother. I knew, Esther, that you had no brother.” “No.” she answered eagerly 7 , “not my brother; my lover—my ” “Not your husband, Esther?” “Not yet; but he loves me. I will not leave him. Have you—have you seen him?” “I have seen him more than once since arriv ing here, but not closely. I shall see him face to face before the rising of another sun. I shall demand an explanation of his attitude to you. “Do no such thing,” I implore you, for pity’s sake. He would resent it; he would be angry.” “If all is right, why should he?” “He would resent the interference. Oh !” ex- ' claimed Esther, making a last appeal, “will you not let me be at peace a little ? If there is an I altercation, exposure, there will be disgrace for j me here. I shall have to leave my lodgings—to hide myself anywhere,=—in the grave is best swear to you that I will not leave him, and your seeing him will do no good. Promise that you will not speak to him.” “Y'ou leave me no alternative after that ap peal,” he said, after an instant’s hesitation. “I promise,—I will comply with your entreaty. Good-by, Esther. God pity and protect you.” He clasped her hand and pressed into it a roll of bills as he rose to go. She thrust the money back into his hand instantly, turning on him a lc ok in which sorrow was blent with indigna tion. It was unlike John Haywood’s usual deli cacy to bestow a gift in this way. She felt that she had fallen far in his esteem. A rush of painful feeling made her tremble and turn deadly pale. Copley, who had returned with the water, and like, will weep over the mischief she has done. In all ages past, and in those to come, she has been, and will ever be, the magnet of the affec tions, the sunlight of man’s existence, and the idol for which men will freely shed their life blood. “She is God’s last, best gift to man;” and for her virtues, her love and sympathy, her | soul-cheering smiles of encouragement, her con- ■ stancy and uncomplaining endurance, her lin- ! gering tenderness in sickness and unfaltering faith in death, man will ever adore her. Still, with all her angelic qualities, she sometimes gets up a “tempest in a teapot.” To her I am in debted for my first insight into the practical workings of the “ code.' It was twenty years ago—whew? how time does fly !—in one of the beautiful little villages of Middle Georgia, when “corn-shucking songs were heard in the land,” and peace and plenty abounded. Mattie Crenshaw was not the belle of the village, but she was a splendid girl for all 1 that. Fair, fat and twenty, she was, blue-eyed and brown-haired, with rosy cheeks, red lips and teeth of pearl. She was never without admirers among the village beaux. Like many ether vil lage maidens, NIattie prided herself on being the first to receive the attentions of every new dry goods clerk the village merchants were able to entice from the larger cities, to preside over the yard-sticks in their modest establishments. Mattie was generally the most successful at angling in Cupid’s stream, and enjoyed her tri umph when escorted to church first by the new comer. Mattie had tact. She was smart, pert, industrious, good-looking and lusciously gush- ing, when she chose to be; lienee her success as an angler. Among her beaux was one Ned Simpson, a conceited coxcomb and would-be dandy, who had only one commendable trait of character— viz., perseverance. He fell heels over head in love with the gushing Mattie, and resolved to make her Airs. Simpson at all hazzards. With him, to resolve was to do. His indomitable per severance had made him a fixture in the store of Jones A Co., at a good salary, and now he brought all his energies to bear on the gentle Mattie. He became her shadow. She couldn’t shake him, try hard as she would. He wouldn’t be shaken—a sort of human opossum—and at last she had to endure what could not be avoided. He was so polite, so generous, to her, that she ‘ began to think him a good fellow, after all. As the constant dripping of water is said to wear ; away the hardest stone, so Ned Simpson wore i out the patience of Mattie, and she accepted lu^u—to get— yid. of him' Don't laugh, gentle “Oh, I understand now,” and Charlie looked grave for a few moments. Then, with a hand some smile on his face, he said: “See here, Bob, don’t you think he’s making a ninny of himself? She had a right to do as she pleased, you know,” Bob scratched his head and looked ashamed of himself, and suggested that Charlie appoint a friend to meet him and let them manage it. Charlie appointed Jim Ward as his friend, plac ing the challenge in his hands, at the same time whispering: “Don’t let him make a fool of himself, Jim.” Jim and Bob went and talked the matter over, and privately agreed to load the pistols with blank cartridges, there being no other way of preventing bloodshed. The time was as desig nated in the challenge, and the writer, determ ined to see an “affair of honor’’once in his life, walked the entire distance, concealing himself from observation, and was rewarded for his per severance. On the ground the seconds measured the dis tance (ten paces), and tossed for choice of posi- ; tion. Charlie won, and Ned, almost as white as a sheet, and trembling like an aspen, was occa sionally discouraged. Charlie took position, in his shirt-sleeves, and as cool as a encumber. Ned beckoned to Bob and whispered: “ I withdraw the challenge, and ” “No you don’t, sir!” interrupted Bob sternly, “or you’ll have me to fight. I won’t be dis graced that way—not if I know it.” “ But see here, Bob, I —I —I ” “Re a man. Xed Simpson!" hissed Bob, “and don’t show the white feather;” and- taking him by the arm, Bob conducted him to his position, placing the pistol in his right hand, and then left him. “Are you ready, gentlemen?” called Jim, in a clear, ringing voice. “Ready !” promptly responded Charlie, straightening himself like an arrow. “ Fire ! one—” and Ned wheeled and took to his heels like a scared deer. Charlie fired, and Ned leaped five feet or more, squirmed, wiggled, and twisted about like a contortionist, and then, seeing he was not hurt, turned and deliberately aimed and tired at his antagonist, exclaiming: “There, blast you, take that, and mind who you shoot at next time !” Every man on the ground, save Ned, dropped to mother earth, as if shot through the heart, rolling over and over on the grass iu convulsions of laughter. Such a scene was never before or since seen in Georgia. The boys went into hys terics, and Ned calmly surveyed the scene a few moments, and then, comprehending how he had distinguished himself, hurled a volley of oaths at the crowd and “vamoosed” the town, county and State, as he was never afterwards heard of in that section. [For The Sunny South.] OLD MAIDS. BY ZELLA HARGROVE. reader, for womeD have committed even greater follies than marrying men to get rid of them. They were engaged to be married, and the en tire village had knowledge of the fact within twenty-four hours after the “popping,” for volu ble Ned could not contain himself for joy. He at once began to lavish his entire salary on his . , , fiancee, who began to think she had made an ad- 1 'i° U n t i ' - ^ 0U ° n ^ack into the fresh ; m [ ra [,i e selection, one who would make her first r shall I bring you some water ? _ , in heart and soul in all time to come. j Time flew swiftly by, and in the next month but one, they were to be married. In the mean- i time, a new clerk—Charlie Winslow—had been imported into the village, and was domiciled in 1 the store of Simonton A Ellis. Charlie was handsome, manly, but very quiet in deportment, with a “love of a mustache” that was ahead of “any other fellow” in town. He came on a Wednesday, and on Saturday following, Mattie Crenshaw visited the store, made a few trifling purchases and the acquaintance of the new clerk. I The next day Ned had the high old jumjiing | toothache, and Charlie escorted Mattie to church, | to the intense disgust of a score of other village | beauties. She found him so ditterent from Ned. so gentlemanly, so well-read in literature of all kinds—particularly poetry, which she adored— that she went back home all out of sorts, as the printers say when “strapped.” Charlie was so well pleased with the gushing maiden that he engaged her company for that night, and never left her until the “wee sma’ hours ayant the twal. ” The next day the news of her going on with the new-comer reached Ned Simpson, and the green-eyed monster at once conjured up a little “hell on earth” for him. Between that' and the toothache, Ned was in anything but a good humor. He didn’t have courage enough to have ; the tooth extracted, and suffered on in intense agony, with but little sympathy from his dear Mattie. In the meantime. Charlie “improved each shining hour,” and knelt at Mattie’s shrine udtil somebody told him she was “mortgaged property.” He asked her about it. She intima ted that she wasn't married yet, and that she was just the kind of a girl to do as she pleased, i Charlie winked “over the left” and pushed things i so fast as to gain the prize. .Indeed, Mattie 1 >ved him at the first sight, and owned up at : proper time. The time was set for their mar riage, but kept a profound secret; and one morn ing the village was startled by the announce- ; ment of their elopement. Ned Simpson swore “great guns,” vowing a terrible vengeance on ® j the guilty pair when they crossed his pathway ! * again. Well, at the end of the week they returned, and commenced boarding with one of the pro prietors of the store. Ned Simpson promptly 1 ealled in Bob Wilkins, and sent him to Charlie ! with a challenge to meet him in mortal combat. The challenge was a singular document, and not exactly in keeping with the usual tone of “notes under the code. ” It read thus: “J// - . Charles Winslow: “Sir,—Y'ou can make no apology for your conduct that would be satisfactory; therefore, I demand a meeting on the county side of Flint river, at sunrise to-morrow’ morning. My which he put the sauce-pan, his only cooking the winter, if he would be steady and reliable. utensil. The few books were bright and well dusted, as were the cheap prints upon the wall. All the arrangements of the room, though se verely economical, betrayed neatness and order, with perhaps a single exception,—the cobwebs on the ceiling. Copley declared he had not the heart to demolish them, since he had lain in his entrance hall of the theatre, Esther, who had bed during a long sickness and watched the her hand on Harvey’s arm, felt him suddenly patient industry with which the little manufac- start, and looking up, saw that his eyes were wove them hour by hour, and the care with - fixed upon the dark, sparkling, laughing face of a But—you know your brother, my dear,” con cluded madame, with a shrug of her plumn shoulders. 1 1 “We are waiting for you, Esther,” said Har vey, looking in. As they stood a moment inside the pillared they mended a broken thread. girl who was hanging on the arm of a youth with dignant look, and spoke at once to Dr. Haywood: “Let me pass, if you please.” Then in a lower tone, as he caught his arm: “I think you are annoying this lady, sir. By what right ” John turned and looked at him earnestly with his grave, keen blue eye; then he bent his head. “You look like a true man,” he said. “Be a friend to her; she will need one;” and he passed out. The whole scene had passed quickly; the words had been so low, the gestures so quiet, that it had escaped any special observation. friend, Mr. Wilkins, will arrange matters in my behalf. / want blood and will have it. “I am, sir, Ned Simpson.” “Why, what does this mean, Bob?” asked Charlie, as he read the very singular note just handed him. “I guess it means fight, Charlie,” suggested Bob, “as Ned is roaring around like a wild , hyena, swearing he 11 kill you and make Mattie to „ et k er bundle up the^unbeams of terrestrial a widow, or be made food tor worms himself, ; ex f stence; and ca8 t them bountifully at our feet. Of how many blighted hopes,broken dreams and demolished air-castles the words “old maid” tell,—often of a wasted youth, reckless flirta tion. a gay, coquettish nonchalance to high and sacred things— and then, oh ! then after a nar row, cold, unhappy old maidhood, a restless, discontented life; distasteful home; an utterly insipid existence; a faded, colorless, and almost useless bloom upon life’s tree. There is one class of old maids who are ever angling in the matrimonial pool; who deem matrimony the chief end of life, and yet, never accomplish their mission—those fixy, airy, over- polite creatures, good and kind in company 7 , extra agreeable—conspicuously so, to the sterner sex; but the furrow of a cross, sour disposition can easily be traced about the mouth and eye. Why these are old maids is a difficult problem; most probably because they never met with mu tual congeniality, or, in the technical terms of Hymen, played their cards badly. They gather precious little morsels of gossip here, and a ! sentence or half-expressed sentiment there, to feed imagination and become “newsy.” Why blame them for that? Woman’s heart must love, and when deprived of the natural altar of their affection, matrimony, they turn, often, to the nearest or most convenient object: too frequently their education or home-training raises them no higher than gossiping. This class of people excite much laughter and ridicule, and but little sympathy. .’ . . “ Pale primroses. That die unmarried ere they ran behold Bright Phoebus in his strength.” Still, they are in need of great sympathy and forbearance for their very weakness. Misfor tunes of others should never be derided. There is another class which we woud scarcely think or dare to style “old maids;” those pure, high-toned, intelligent, unmarried women who so often help to make life tolerable—who, by patience, forbearance, a holy resignation to all things as ordered by Providence, teach us that I even in single combat the battle of life is worth fighting; that life is not a failure; that the mere act of breathing, regardless of the multitudi nous blessings of earth, is worth the exertion, when considered a part of, or prelude to, the blissful rest beyond. These are they into whose hearts love, like a consuming flame, entered in a bright, happy youth, and chill disappoint ment paled the coruscations. All the potency of Cupid ever after proves insufficient to replace its beauty; the first flame flickers slowly upon the sanctuary of souvenirs, with ever and anon a beam of light from Hope’s blue eyes, that some day, along life’s dreary path, the sanctuary may be relighted, and again the flame of affec tion burn brightly; but, alas! alas-!—that beam of light soon faded away before the misty vapor, and a pure, holy resignation hovers like the pil lar of fire in the wilderness over the loving heart, and arouses the mind from lethargy, ami fills the soul with aspirations to noble, useful employment, that render life sweet and happy. Without these pure, reliable ministering angels in the sick-room in the dark hour of trouble, and gloomy days of bereavement and sorrow, to what would the world degenerate ? When the name of such an one is upon the list of friends, she can be trusted in disappoint ment or sorrow; she is patient with wayward, childish freaks, and gentle with the erring; she can reprove severely, with a kindly smile that stings more deeply those inclined to be thought less; is always firm and speaks ever gently. How would many little nieces and nephews live without “auntie?” They, in their great love and sweet innocence, forget she is growing old, and love her better for the “silver threads among the gold. ” The infirm parents, and frequently orphaned sisters and brothers, cared for and guided by an elder one, whose life is sacrificed to them and devoted to love-labor and forgetfulness of self, bless from the depths of loving hearts the “old maids,” that carry peace and light into every crack and crevice wherein their influence falls. Do these aged pilgrims and little sunbefims of earth ever ask why this love-laborer is unmar ried, or, rather, “old maid?” No. She so fills their lives and hearts with the quintessence ot earthly bliss and thankfulness, they forget, or never know her as an old maid. God bless these pure, patient unmarried women and innocent prattling children, who “What does he want to fight about, Bob?’ “Why, about Mattie, of course.”- “ About my wife !” “Yes; she was engaged to him before she saw you, you know, and he thinks you did To extinguish a kerosene lamp, turn the light up to its full power and blow a sharp puff' hori- 7 ^ _ zontally across the mouth of the chimney, and it wrong to come between him and her, and there- will lie extinguished safely and without after- fore wants to have it out with you.” smoke or smell.