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t For ' rl >e Sonny South.] THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY. BY K. c. WAKELEE. Well, here I am, and almost dead! I’ve shut the windows, barred the door; Life is to me a constant dread, In years divisible by four; But “sink or swim, survive or die,” I’ll not surrender—no, not I. The day is gloriously fair, Light breezes thro* the casement steal; I long to breathe the outer air, And catch the merry water's peal, To watch the softly changing sky; Some one will catch me if I fly. Bright birds are glancing in the sun, Like rainbows, on their jeweled wings; I dare not woo a Bingle one, Lest like a carrier dove, it brings ®°me message from a lady fair,— I know how cunning they all are. White roses, with their fragrance sweet, Coquette along the slender vine, Like dancing girls with white-wing’d feet; I dare not press their lips to mine, Lest neath my wooing breath should spring A fairy with a wedding ring. I love the darlings, one and all, And know as well they all love me; If I could win them, great and Bmall, 'Twould be a different thing, you see; But one bird from the nest to win And leave the rest, ’twould be a sin! i More than one change passed over Madeleine’s j face as she read this note. Her voice was hollow I when at length she raised her eyes to Esther’s and said: [Written lor The Sunny South.] FIGHTING AGAINST FATE; OK, Alone in the World. BY MARY E. BRYAN. CHAPTER XXXVII. Tearless and self-repressed, but utterly deso late, Madeleine leaned back in the carriage, hardly conscious that she was borne rapidly along till the aristocratic quarter of the town was reached, and the stopping of the carriage aroused her to find herself in front of her own home. She sickened at heart as she pictured her solitary room and the torture of bitter and lonely reflections that awaited her there. Lean ing from the carriage, she directed the coach man to drive on to the street and number where Esther lived. This last wave of the tide of dis enchantment that had swallowed up her fair , ideals had brought her this straw of hope—the j could have meant the evil she wrought. \ “Let us go.” She was silent through the drive, hut the i white, mute anguish in her face appealed so pit- | eously to Esther, that she drew close to her and | encircled her with her arm, expressing by that ! act the sympathy she refrained from uttering. She found it neeedful still to keep her arm around the trembling figure as they alighted at Berrien’s little cottage and stood waiting an an swer to their summons. The door was opened at length by a middle-aged, dignified woman, who silently conducted them into an inner apartment. As they entered, a solemn and mournful scene met their eyes. On the low, white-draped bed lay the emaciated form of Ce cilia Gonzales, white as she would be under the coffin-lid, her lips drawn over her ivory teeth, the purple A-eins distinct on her temples and on the transparent lids that were dropped over her hollow eyes. Her hands were crossed upon her ! breast, her long, light hair scattered over her j pillow. Wax candles burned at her head and at her feet. A black-robed priest stood near her j on one side, while on the other, with his arms folded over liis breast and his grave face graver and paler than was his wont, stood Berrien. The two visitors had come in softly, hut the sick woman caught the slight sound of their en trance. She opened her eyes, unnaturally large and bright, and fixed them upon Esther. Mad eleine had drawn back into the shadow. “I am glad you have come,” she said in a husky whisper. “I have wanted to see you so often, and to-day, when I know I have so few hours to live, I felt that I must see you and say farewell to you, and ask you to pray for the re pose of poor Sylvestre’s soul. I pray for him unceasingly. For myself, I wish to make my peace with God; the priest is here to give me the blessed sacrament. But before it touches my lips, there is one tiling I wish to do: I want to see the lady my Sylvestre loved. I want to make myself look into her fair face with no shadow of wicked an esentful feeling—I want to take her hand and forgive her. as I pray God to forgive me. I think—I trust I could do this now—if she were here.” “She is here.” Madeleine said, coming sud denly forward and sinking on her knees beside the bed. “Ah, Blessed Virgin?” uttered the invalid, involuntarily clasping her hands over her eyes and shuddering. But she withdrew her hands instantly and fixed her great, hollow, mournful eyes upon Madeleine. “Yes, it is she,” she whispered brokenly; “but changed—so pale, so sad, yet so beautiful still. To look at that face, it does not seem she it J'O Hue possibility that the two friends she had hon ored and lately distrusted were after all wor thy of her faith. The swift insight sho had had into the wily, insidious nature of AVerter, had thrown a gleam upon other things, and in the whirl of emotions that made confusion of her breast, one of the many thoughts that came was I did not—oh, I did not mean it!” breathed Madeleine eagerly. “I meant to bless, not to destroy. I thought to delight myself with the society of genius, while I made myself loved and looked up to as its benefactress. I was vain and unthinking and selfish, hut oh ! not guilty of deliberate wrong to him—to you. Do you be- that the evil insinuations of AVerter against Ber- heve me • ^ - on believe me. rien and against Esther were without truth— i She leaned forward earnestly, her pale, pas- framed by him through the same motive that ! sionate face, her parted lips and outstretched led him to the indelicacy of exposing to her her husband’s falsehood. If this was, so she had wronged them by her suspicion, and her wonted hands close to the emaciated form upon the bed. Cecilia tried to speak, hut her choked lungs refused her utterance. She gasped for breath; generous impulse was to make amends. Ber- her features were distorted convulsively; she nen, it is true, was self-estranged; hut Esther she had herself exiled from her confidence. The thought of her friend came to her now—her soft, sad eyes, her proud, patient, pathetic face, so waved her hands back with the gesture that says, “Stand back; give me air—I am suffocat ing.” But Madeleine mistook the gesture. She thought that this was death, and that even in sharp a contrast to the voluptuous animal beauty ’ Jh® a " on . v dissolution Sylvestre s wife waved *1,,. rtntnrrtnn ” nu ATiiil pi pin a Lit- her from her with an impulse of unforgiving terly rest! had charm clasping arms of this young girl: and now it seemed that these more than anything else could comfoit her in this wretched disenchantment. There was a plain carriage at the door of Mr. Dodd’s little house as Madeleine alighted before it—a hired carriage, so the driver informed her, and also that no one had come in it—he hud only brought a note to a lady who lived in the house. Madeleine groped her way through the dim passage and ascended the stairs. At the much to excite you, see my sister again to-night. She is receiving the blessed sacrament. She begged’ n*e to tell you that she believed you—that she thought wrong of you no more.” He wrapped the shawl carefully around her as he spoke, and accompanied her and Esther to the carriage. He was himself again as be bid them good night — cold, courteous, self-repressed. Only once a softer emotion camq' into his face—as Madeleine, after all adieux had been spoken, stretched out her little hand silently, pleadingly. He took it and held it in a brief farewell clasp. Afterwards, there was a comfort in the memory even of that slight kindness. The stars were bright in the soft June sky. The quiet and coolness of night Lad descended upon the hot and dusty city. Its soothing spell wrought upon Madeleine’s over-tried heart, and with her head pressed against Esther's bosom, she found sweet relief in tears. She found Mr. Harte, contrary to,his usual habit when at home in the evening, up and waiting for her. He looked at her as she entered with an angry, suspicious glance, such as she had never seen in his eyes before. But she merely noticed it; her heart was too full of vari ous emotions. And beside, she felt as if hence forth he had nothing to do with her life. There had never been any congeniality between them; the only uniting bond had been spun by her imagination, which had endowed him with ideal attributes. These were now ru lely broken, and she realized at last how utttei iy dissimilar they were. At last she felt “ Shamed in all her nature to have l^ved v Iot a thing,” and the paramount feeling’ “in ' her confused mood was an impulse to withdraw the current of ber life as far as might he fiora Lis. She was passing on, but he stopped io his walk about the room and confronted her. “ AVhere have you been till t.o late ?” he asked harshly. “To visit a sick lady,” she uhswered. “That’s too thin a dodge,” he said, sneering. “Yon were seen to drive to jour particular friend Berrien’s door, where my carriage and horses were standing at last accounts. Some one had followed and watched her, Mad eleine thought. The indignant blood rushed to her forehead, but she said calmly: “It is Berrien’s sister who is dyin ; .and who sent for me this evening. Ask to-int rrow, and yon will see this is true.” Her quiet hauteur disconcerted him. He had ! no reply ready, and she was passing on with a slight bend of the head, when his irritated feel- | ing again found vent in words. “ It seems you can find no other female asso ciate than that Bernard girl—a proud, insolent beggar, as I told you before, and now I hear that she is something worse. I have given you your way all along, because I don’t like to be bother ed, and I thought you had sense enough to keep out of mischief; but I find if I give you rope enough you will hang yourself .rid me too. So from this time out I will draw the rein tighter. I’ll not have you disgracing my name by associ ating with an adventuress and a drunken printer, who has got himself in jail for attacking a gen tleman.” Disgrace him ! Disgrace the man whom she had seen but a few hours before with his arm around a creature of that race whose merest touch as a lover upon the hand of the humblest white woman of her land would be felt by her to be horrible shame and pollution. For an in stant the proud blood burned in her veins, then contempt took the place of resentment. “ I shall he glad for your sake if your associ ates are always as honorable as mine,” she said with quiet scorn in her low voice and in the believe The last words trembled faintlj' on her lips; a spasm passed over her face; her head sank upon the side of the bed near which she knelt. The convulsion that had seized Cecilia was mo mentary—one of those suffocating fits that come so often in the last stages of consumption. As it pussed, aDd Berrien, who had raised her in his arms, lowered her head at her desire to the pillow, she caught sight of Madeleine’s motion- top, she found Esther, wearing her hat and just less figure and murmured: drawing her shawl about her. A flush rose to j “Tell her I believe her—I forgive her; I think her forehead when she saw Madeleine, hut she spoke to her quietly, regarding her with a calm, self-respecting air that was not encouraging. But Madeleine waited for no encouragement. One sight of that face swept away any lingering mist of suspicion. Her hands clasped her friend’s, her eyes met Esther’s pleadingly. “ Forgive me,” she said. “I have been mad and cruel enough to doubt you, but the mad ness is over forever. Forgive me—take me back to your friendship.” Esther smiled drearily. "I forgive you easily,” she said; “hut as to renewing our friendly intercourse, that must not be again. I warned you that my compan ionship might do you harm with your world, with your friends.” “I have no world, no friends—only you. I am unhappy; you must not keep away from me; sav you will net.” “I cannot tell. I am a feather in the hands of destiny. Circumstances may make me seek you. I was about to do so when you came. I was on my way to your house—on my way to take you with me to—a deatli-hed.” “A death-bed?" Esther took an envelope from the pocket of her dress. “ Something strange and sad—a secret I have known some time, hut was not permitted to tell you -is about to he disclosed to you now. Hear it calmly as you can; do not suffer yourself to he too much agitated. The persoD who is dying is Berrien’s sister—the widow of Sylvestre Gon- Deadly pallor overspread Madeleine’s face. She grasped the arm of her friend for support. She looked wildly into Esther’s face. “Sylvestre’s wife is Berrien’s sister, and I never knew it. Berrien never told me, and he has so long pretended to he my friend! Oh! now I know what a mockery that friendship was! And I believed in it so; I gave my fullest trust—I laid my heart bare to my bitterest enemr- I* was cruel; I can never forgive it. It was aserpent-like design to creep into my heart and sting its inmost core.” “I do not think that, Madeleine; I believe the contrary. Some time I will tell you why. But even if‘it were so, you must forgive him; forgive as you may yourself wish to he pardoned for a wrong, or a seeming wrong. There is one who wishes to forgive you-with her dying breath. She held out the note and Madeleine took it. She was a long time with her eyes fixed upon those brief, cold lines in Berrien’s writing, in which he simply told Esther that his sister, be lieving she was near her last hour, had so urg ently implored him to send for herself and Mad eleine, that she might say good-by to one and foririve the other, that he felt constrained to obey her wishes. He had sent a carriage ac cordingly, asking that she would see Madeleine and that they would both grant his sister the brief interview she desired. After the signing of his name, these *ines were added underneath: . , , “ If Mrs. Harte is still uninformed concerning the existence of my sister and her identity as the wife of Gonzales, let her be told as gently as mav be. Once, I believed that a knowledge of twould be a severe shock to her; recently, I have reason to think that I overrated her sensi- ness.” no wrong of her now.” Berrien turned hastily to Madeleine, as Es ther, stooping over her, found she was uncon scious. “She has fainted,” she whispered to Berrien. “Carry her into the next room if you can, and let us keep your sister from suspecting what has happened.” While he lifted the light figure in his arms, • knock Mr. AVerter off his horse tmd got put in 'delicate, appewzing little supJieA which seemed hurt to find that her distress couh could* aol eat. “Put it down, mammy, and come here please,” said Madeleine, in whose ears one remark of her husband kept ringing. “ I waut you to tell me if you have heard anything about Charlie Morris being in jail ?" “I hear it dis evenin’, first time, child. Mr. AVerter told marster.” “Mr. AVerter has been here, then?” “ He was here not half hour ago. He come walking up with marster, alongside of a fine bay horse. He had de rein over his arm, and dey stood talking at de gate, and come in and had a glass of wine. He praised ilf^wine mightily, and gave marster some cigars—‘mighty fine Ha- hanas and dey walked out anti smoked on de gallery, and as I take away de glasses, I catch Charlie’s name, and listen and find he done she bent over the sick woman, spoke to and fanned her with the broad fan of white feathers which she held before her eyes. Then the nurse took her place and Esther hnrried into the next room, where Berrien, bending over Madeleine, chafed her hands in his. He turned a look of anxious alarm upon Esther and instantly re sumed his efforts to restore consciousness to the marble-like face upon the pillow, with the con traction of cruel pain seemingly chiseled on the beautiful lips and brow. His hand trembled as he felt for the pulse at her wrist. He bent down to listen for her heart-beats, and his face, when he raised it, was almost as colorless as the one that lay upon the dark-red cushion of the couch. “ I hear nothing,” he said. “Ifear—you know she has a malady of the heart. If this should he ” He did not say death, hut his look, as it went hack to Madeleine’s face, told his fear. Esther thought that in that look she read a secret she had faintly suspected before—a secret she was sure Berrien would have died rather than reveal. “ Her heart beats and she breathes,” she said. “It is only a swoon. Leave her with me; I think I can revive her.” She saw that this calm, stern man was moved out of his usual self-control. She herself, know ing her own fragility, was not without alarm, and she uttered a prayer of thankfulness when at last a shadow of color crept into the marble cheek; the lips fluttered, and with a soft, deep sigh, Madeleine unclosed her eyes. A\ r hen she could speak, she smiled faintly, saying: “ Don’t be frightened, dear; I have these seiz ures sometimes, especially when I have had much to excite me, as I have had to-day. The heart is the trouble, you know. It’s a pity hearts were not left out of our organizations. We women would he better without them.” Then, suddenly recollecting and shuddering and growing pale, she asked: “Is she dead?” “No; it was only a suffocating seizure. The nurse thinks she is no worse now than she has been for several days. But you, Madeleine— you are suffering still. You must go home and lie down.” “Yes, that is best,” said Berrien, entering at this moment. “I am sorry I subjected you to this. It was unwise, I knew, but I yielded to my sister’s wish.” “I am glad, very glad I came. If I could only have come before ! If I could only have been of use to her in some way all the long while she has been ill! If I could have only known ! Oh, it was cruel in you to keep this a secret; and all the while I believed you were my friend, while you carried this in your heart, burning there like a smothered fire—the fire of scorn and hate— whenever you looked at me.” Berrien did not reply for a moment. His voice was low and unsteady when at last he said: “ You are mistaken—but—we cannot spare time to think of this now. You have had too I jail. Mr. AVerter give the poor, pretty boy a bad name -had! ‘I haven’t told Mrs. Harte,’ he say; ‘I am afraid it would distress her. De fel low was such a protege of hers. I told her he was vicious and hadn’i no talent; but women icill set a store by a handsome face and beaux yeux. You had better not let her know; she is— impulsive’—dat’s de word. ‘She might do something rash. I’m afraid it’ll go hard wid de boy. He can’t give bail; nobody won’t stand his s’curity. He’s give hisself such airs since he’s been so spoiled by de women dat his own class stand off from him.’ Dat’s what I heard, child; and then marster swore ” “Never mind what he said, auntie. Don’t tell me any more. AA’ind up my hair for me, please, and give me mj T dressing-gown. I am tired and ill.” What were her thoughts wliVn at last she was alone ? She felt that there wau not a hope or a purpose remaining to her in life. And there was no comfort in the past; it had all been hu miliating failure. She had fulfilled none of her ideals; she had attained none of the standards she had reared in her poetic dreams; she had exerted no beneficent influence <jn her husband or her friends; she had blighted where she had attempted to benefit. She seemed to herself to resemble that insect of the tropics which stings and kills whatever it lights upon. The last intelligence she had bea r d filled the measure of the fateful day. Conscience hissed in her ears, “You, only you, have ruined the life of this hoy.” And yet she had meant no harm to Charlie Morris. AVhen she encouraged him to visit her house; when she sang and played for him and talked to hin of poetry, of art, of music and of the stage; when she took him with her to opera and theatre and lavished on him books and flowers and pretty, playful compliments, she told herself she was actuated only by a desire to refine his taste and stimulate his ambition. The pleasure she took in this ap peared to her only the gratification that comes from the kindly act of assisting another—a pleas ure naturally more intense whjn this assistance is in the form of developing a quick young in tellect. She was hardly conscious that mixed with this was a thrill of delight at feeling herself the patroness, the mental cicerone of a hand some, unsophisticated boy of a class outside of hers, and of knowing that he looked up to her and acknowledged her influence.» There was no charm in reflecting npon this to-night—only humbling sadness and keen self-upbraiding. What had her friendship brought to him? It had found him a merry-hearted, energetic boy, whose natural tendency to wildness had been held in check by a mother’s influence and by the absence of opportunity and temptation. Her friendship had opened the gates of temptation, and there had come to him restlessness; discon tent with his pursuits and his associates; long ings after the life of ease and beauty, glimpses of which he had in her parlor, in her society, and in the books she gave him; the hereditary craving for strong drink, that he had hardly kept at bay, now readily fastening upon his fe vered mood; and lastly, a mad passion (a boyish fancy, Madeleine termed it, forgetting how strong and unreasoning are the fancies of ardent youth), from which had sprung irritability, mor bid resentment of slights and a sullen jealousy. She did not doubt, whatever might have appear ed npon the surface, that this last was the cause of the attack upon AVerter, by reason of which Charlie was now the inmate of a prison, while his mother wept beside her lonely hearth over the failure of the stall'that she had hoped would support and comfort her widowhood. Self-reproach stung Madeleine to resolve. This evil at least might be partly amended. Charlie must first be released from prison; afterwards, she would do what she could to obtain a situa tion for him in some other town. Some one must be found who would go securitj’ for him upon bis bond that he would appear in court at the time appointed for his trial. AVho should it be ? she asked herself; and she could think of but one she dared apply to—her husband’s lawyer, a courtly and gentle-hearted old man, with whom she was something of a favorite. She would see him as early to-morrow as possible, and get him to put his signature upon the bond, secur ing him against risk by leaving in his hands the amount of money the bond called for, whatever that might be. She opened the little malachite box in which she kept her valuables, and counted out the money it contained. There was not as much as she had hoped there would be, but here were her jewels. Their glitter at this mo ment seemed to satirize her wretched mood. Here was a garnet set that had been hers before marriage—fine, large stones in heavy, old-fash ioned setting. She might deposit these with her jeweler and borrow a fourth of their value, perhaps. She decided, as usual, impulsively, and acted promptly npon her resolve. Her arrangements proved practicable, and by noon next day Char lie was free. It was the afternoon of the day succeeding Charlie’s liberation that Madeleine lay listlessly back upon the velvet cushions of her easy chair, drawn close to the window-, for the day had been intensely 7 hot, and the atmosphere seemed every moment to grow more sultry. The flowers drooped in their vases of gold-colored glass of Venice; the birds were silent in their cages; the Maltese pet fretted and panted at her feet. AVith- out, not a leaf stirred; the odor of many flowers came up warm and sickening in their sweetness; the sun shone with a dull, lurid light, and the green-crested, snowy, exotic water-fowls that splashed in the stream from the fountain ever and anon stretched their long, graceful necks and uttered a harsh, discordant cry. Every thing in nature presaged a storm. Madeleine’s little maid brought two notes to her, which she read at once—one with a mixed expression of sadness and pleasure, the other with deeply agitating emotion. One was a short note from Berrien, thanking her in his sister’s name for some grapes and flowers and wine she bad sent, and saying that Cecilia had rallied slightly 7 from her last attack. The other note a foolscap sheet, blotted as with tears and written in a trembling, old-fashioned hand. “I make this plea to you, because in my deep trouble I catch at any straw of hope, and because I cannot think your heart is so hard as to wish evil to my boy, although you have been the cause of his downfall. Yes, y 7 ou have been his ruin, though you may not have meant to do him so much wrong, and you may repent of it now. If you do, I pray 7 you for the love of Christ’s swett mother to help me save my boy. He is my all my baby—the child of my old age the only one remaining to me out of five, whose graves even I shall never see again. And now. must 1 lose him too Or must I see him go down to ruin worse than death ? AVill there be none to close my oid eyhs? Oh ! pity me, father; let this cup pass from riie. “Let rue 1.11 you calmly. In the next r-ioni my 7 boy is lying. He will not speak to me. As I listen at the door, I hear his—groans his mut tered words. He is wild with shame and de spair. If he had money 7 he would rush at once ; and buy the accursed drink in which to drown j his grief. He says he is disgraced; that his j friends have forsaken him; that no one cares for him; no one will employ him, even if he had j the courage to ask for employment. Ho has no ! heart to go away even if he had means to go; j but, alas ! we have no means even to buy food. j “Oh ! what a change! My boy was such a comfort to his mother; so merry and contented, j so frank and confiding ! Then I lost my influ ence over him. Another took his love, his con- j fidence from me. She still has power over him; ; he mutters her name in his sleep; he cherishes j the books she gave him; the withered flowers. : Yes, though it cuts like a knife to my heart, I j know you have more influence than I. I pray ' you to use it now for his good. Save him from j despair; raise his spirits that the shame of being : in jail and scorned by his mates have crushed : to the dust. My fear is that he will lake his life, j Just now, I found him with a loaded pistol ly ing by him. I took it softly away while he lay with his face hid in his arms. But I do not know what he may do next. Come to see him. His mother pleads for you to come and use all your power to save him. ” Not once did a doubt that this letter was gen uine enter Madeleine’s mind. Its words went to her heart like a stab. ‘ Oh ! God pity 7 me ! Save me from any more all dressed in your black silk suit, standin’ in de middle of de floor.” “It was imagination, Aunt Abbey; you saw my dress hanging there.” “ No, child, it was you, just as you stand, only wid your black silk on and your face white as dat marble bust on de library mantle-piece. It was a warning !—it was a warning! Oh! Miss Madeleine, for mercy's sake don't go out to-day !” “I must, but you shall go with me and tako care of me, auntie.” “ I can’t’fend off de death-angel’s hand; no body can. Oil! surely. Aliss Madeleine, you are not goin’ to wear dat black silk ! Put it‘ down, honey; it’s temptin’ Providence. Here's plenty- others. I’ll never bear to look at dat dress again.” “Nonsense, Aunt Abbey; go down and get you a cup of strong coffee. Your nerves ure shaken. Be ready to go with me when I come down.” And in spite of threatening sky and supernat ural warning, Madeleine, attended by her faith ful slave, set out upon her mission. (TO BE CONTINUED.) YOUNG FOLKS’ COLUMN. [For Tho Sunny South.] KISSING PAPA’S SHOES. Birdie stood beside my chair, Little sprite of years but two; Lovingly she clasps .her hands Bound a soiled and dusty shoe. .ess .sated “■> Huger still contrasts that foot With the tiny, wee-wee maid; ‘ I kiss papa's shoe.” she smiled, And the hearty tribute paid. Loving, little, precious soul— What a picture for my Muse! True and trusting as the stars, Soft and gentle as the dews! Soiling all her snowy frock, Kissing papa’s dusty shoe; But within that tiny breast Dwelt a soul all pure and true. [For The Sunny South.J MISS SPOT’S DISOBEDIENCE. A Story With a Moral. BY “COUSIN ANNIE.” AA r ay down in the shadiest, greenest portion of farmer Day’s meadow, under the trees, through the thick boughs of which the hot, afternoon sunshine scarcely dared peep, a group of cows lay stretched out, lazily chewing their ends. Now, these same cows were the happiest, most contented animals imaginable; well pleased with themselves, the world, and everything in gen eral. There was Mother Brindle, who, in respect to her years and vast deal of experience, was looked up to as quite an oracle by the younger portion of her family. AA’hatever Mother Brin- dle said was sure to be true. No young cow, who followed her advice, was ever known to get into difficulty. Then there was Father Bos, who came next in age to Mother Brindle, and, like her, also, noted for his wisdom. He always knew where the best pasture was to he found, and all who followed close in his footsteps were never known to sufi'er hnnger. Then came Mad ame Crumpledhorn, Mrs. Cherry, Airs. Mnley- Lead, Aliss Sukey, Aliss Blossom, and last of all little Miss Spot. Now, Miss Spot was a frisky young animal of some twelve months old, “quite a baby yet,” older heads declared to her, hut she herself chose to consider otherwise. “She knew how to take care of herself,” she declared. But alas, her frequent troubles, the numerous little “scrapes” she was always getting into, proved the contrary. Then, too. I am sorry to say, ! Aliss Spot was inclined to he rather disobedient, i and poor Airs. Crumpledhorn had a sad time of ! it, indeed, try ing to manage her willful, head- ' strong young daughter. Upon this afternoon of which I am writing, ! while the other cows were happy and contented, j a feeling of restlessness and discontent took possession of Miss Spot. Not far from the meadow, and plainly in sight, was a fine, well growing pea patch, belonging to Squire May- field. Now, Miss Spot, not satisfied with the nice, tender grass all around her, and the bundle of hay or oats she was sure to get at night, often cast longing ej-es in the direction of this pea field. By some chance one or two of the fence rails had become loosened and quite an opening made, and thus Aliss Spot, the more she gazed at it the more she came to the determination to see, if w-ith the help of her short horns, which had just taken a start to grow, and of which Aliss Spot w-as awfully proud, she mightn’t make the opening still larger, and so avail her self of the coveted feast. So, full of this reso lution, she started up and tried to slip away unobserved, for she thought the rest all fast asleep. But Mrs. Crumpledhorn was not. As all good mothers ought to do, she had been keeping watch from between her half-closed eyes upon her willful and headstrong young daughter all the while. As Aliss Spot started up, she opened her eyes uneasily. “ AVither away now, my dear?” she asked. Somewhat taken aback by discovery, Aliss Spot stammered out: “I'm going to break in through that crack in the fence yonder, and get some of those peas.” “Oh, no, my dear, don’t do any such thing,” and Airs. Crumpledhorn got up in her alarm. “It’s very dangerous. The Squire would set evil consequences of my vain and thoughtless ! his dogs upon you.” acts !” was her wild prayer as she paced the room, crushing the letter in her hand. Then she summoned Aunt Abbey and read the letter to her. The mulatto slave had a right to her confidence. She was all that remained to her of her father’s household. She had tended Alade- leine as a baby; she had nursed her in sickness, scolded and encouraged her when she was an ignorant child-wife, and in her arms Madeleine had wept away many of her childish troubles, and even those of maturer years. She soothed her now. “AVe’ll go to see ’em to-morrow, honey. I know where dey live. Charley’s a good boy, and he just needs heartening up a bit. Ail tings look black to him now, and everybody against him. AVe’ll cheer him and de good mama up to-morrow.” “Oh ! let us go to-day, Aunt Abbey—this very afternoon !” “ But it looks like a storm is cornin’ up, child. It’s been too hot for anything, and now, just you hear de low thunder a muttering, and see de clouds cornin’ up.” “Oh! it -will pass away as it did yesterday evening—blow off clear in a little while. I can’t wait, Aunt Abbey. Something awful might happen, that I could prevent. Just go in my dressing room and get out my black silk walk ing suit and hat, and then order the carriage—” “ Master’s got de horses riding wid Mr. AVerter, you know.” “ Then, we can get a cab,” Madeleine said, her face clouding anxiously at the mention of AVerter’s name. Vaguely, she feared him; she had no premonition, however, that he was at this moment, in the revengeful venom of his nature, binding a deadly coil about her. Shaking her head dubiously, Aunt Abbey went into the dressing-room to obey her mistress’ orders. An instant after, Madeleine heard her scream. She rushed into the room and encoun tered Aunt Abbey’s scared, distended eyes and horrified face. “Dere! it’s gone; but I saw it!—I saw it standin’ right here!” “Saw what?” “A ghost!—oh, child, de ghost of yourself, “I’m not afraid !” Aliss Spot declared with a dignified toss of her short horns, and away she trotted. “Nay, nay, Spot, dear; oh, do come hack !” the mother cried in alarm. But the willful Miss Spot kept straight along. By this time the other cows had been aroused from their slumbers, and as soon as they of wll». stood what was going on, began to entreat a “Come back, Spot, that’s a dear, and ni.ud your poor mamma !” Madame Cherry said. “Oh, dear, the dogs will kill you !” Miss Sukey cried. Bu f headstrong Miss Spot only tossed her head in defiance. “ AVhat a very willful, headstrong young crea ture !” motberBrindle sighed. “Yes,” father Bos said as he turned his cud around in his mouth, “and some of these times her disobedience will bring her into trouble.” Father Bos’s words seemed as a prophecy soon to be fulfilled, for Aliss Spot bad no sooner by dint of a great deal of exertion made ber way into the field, and whisking her tail round and round with delight began tasting of the peas, when suddenly there came a sound that struck a chill of terror to the heart—the barking of dogs coming nearer. “Run, John ! run quick !” the Squire cried; and John did “run quick,” with a half dozen great, ugly, fierce looking dogs close at his heels. Poor Miss Spot! Before she could make her escape they were down upon her, their sharp teeth bringing the blood at every bite. Hither and thither she ran, the pain making her so blind she coaid scarcely tell which way she was going. She got out at last, but not as she went in. She carried the scars of the big dog’s teeth to her dying day. “ She was a wiser, though a sadder calf.” Yes, Miss Spot had learned a les son she never forgot. Neither Atotlier Brindle, Father Boss, or Mrs. Crumpledhorn ever had cause to complain of her disobedience again. She became a model calf, and grew up at length to cow-hood, an honor to her mother and all who knew her. Now, children, can’t you find the moral to this story ? AVell, here it is: Moral—j Mind Motheb.