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(**or the Sunny South.)
ter months of silence and suspense, a brief let- ! ish fort—the Bomb-Proof, he called it—whose dead-pale face. She passed without speaking,
ter came telling of a tedious illness, of a longiDg fallen walls were a mere mass of brick and stone, ! only inclining her head, and not lifting the
to return, a yearning to be clasped “to your overgrown with grass and vines. heavy lids of her eyes,
true heart, my sister ”—a letter in which there | At the wharf, the scene was somewhat livelier, ; “ Who is she ?” Marian asked,
was an evident struggle against a weary despon- A schooner and three or four fishing boats were i “Madame Floris, Alice’s music-teacher. She
dency, that burst forth in one instance in the at the landing, and a crowd of ragged negroes is going out for the solitary walk she takes every
words: were rolling the barrels from their decks upon 1 evening at this hour.”
“It is Spring again, and the breeze is astir in ! the wharf and into the warehouse with much “Is she foreign?”
the ash tree by my window. I remember the ; shouting and singing. The Spray was also at “I think so. I detect a foreign accent, but
wind-murmurs in the old oak over mother’s ! the landing with steam up, ready to take freight she is so silent and reserved, I have never asked,
grave, that we used to think were the whispers . or passengers to the waiting steamer anchored ' She never speaks except when addressed, and
( If APTFP T IT of the an g e * s - How still and calm that burial outside, in the deep waters of the Spanish Hole, 1 comes among ns only at meals.”
.HAfihti dL place seems in my memory ! How sweet, if I j for the town was situated on the river a few miles i “ Does she always wear that black cap, hood,
The first letters that came from Adrienne were could lie there by my mother at rest forever ! j from its mouth, which formed a wide hut rather ! or whatever it is ?” asked Dr. Norris,
reassuring, although they contained none of Marian, pray for me, that I may be able to bear shallow harbor. Just outside the river mouth, : “ Always—and the gray cape. I half believe
the raptures usual to young brides, a fact-which this burden of life—for it is heavy, heavy.” i in a curved indentation of the Gulf-shore, was j she is a nun,” answered Alice,
did not seem strange to the elder sister, for Marian mused painfully over this outburst of Cedar Bay, where Captain Head lived, when he “Yet if you catch, as I did once, a flash of the
Adrienne had never been effusive; her emotions passionate despair. It was the last but one she was not on board his beloved lighter, and where | eyes, hidden under their heavy lids so persist-
of joy or grief were expressed in the changes of was to see from Adrienne’s pen. Her letters re- Adriennb’s home was situated. i ently, it will banish all idea of the convent. The
THE MYSTERY
—of—
CEDAR BAY.
BY .MARY E. BRYAN.
her face, in the movements and postures of her sumed their former graceful descriptive style,
flexile body, rather than in words. Bat the though something in their tone told of restraint
spirit of tranquility breathed through these let- ; and self-repression. There was no more men-
ters, and her allusions to her hnsband were in tion of Aubrey De Vere, though Marian wrote
the tone of admiring respect. Knowing Mari- inquiring about him.
an's passion for pictures, she sketched the scenes 1 Months passed. Italy and Spain were visited;
and people that came within her observation; then there was a short time spent in the gay
the rivers, shadowed by castle-crowned cliff's; French capital; and at last a letter came without
the mountains, the ruins, tha gorgeous churches, the foreign postmark. They had returned—had
the pictures, the statues—marble shapes of settled down at the Florida home of the De
beauty that had haunted Marian’s imagination; Forests—a lonely spot on the Gulf coast, on the
the life in the busy foreign streets, in its quaint, ; shore of an inlet that was known as Cedar Bay.
picturesque or ludicrous aspects; these Adrienne j Alice was with them, and Adrienne entreated | see any sign of ’em here.”
outlined with vivid touches to amuse the lonely her sister to come and live with her also. But j Marian had not expected any one.
girl at Kent Farm, and so cleverly were they j Marian read the letter beside the chair of her
sketched that only Marian’s eye would have j helpless aunt, still lingering in the death in life
missed anything in these pleasant letters. Only j of paralysis, and whose sunken eyes followed
her love-sharpened senses would have noticed | her movements jealously and tilled with ehild-
the change that gradually crept into them—the j ish tears if she went out of her sight,
absence of special personal allusion; of any! Miss Rachel’s mind had failed more and more.
“ ‘ Castle Dismal,’ we folks call it,” said Cap- I eyes are not nun-like, whatever their dropped
tain Head, “for it’s the biggest house hereabout, | lids may be.”
and it’s the lonesomest and the ghostliest-look- j “ Did you know nothing of her before she
ing. I wouldn't live in it for all the gold Cap- I came among you?” Marian asked,
tain Kidd ever buried, although my little camp’s : Adrienne did not answer immediately; and it
almost in sight of it,where my old woman lives, ! was Alice who said:
and where I’m going to carry this young one j “No, ire did not. Mr. De Forest engaged her.
right now. If you won’t mind taking a seat with j He knew her well, I think.”
us in the carryall, miss, behind the gentlest! “ And he told you nothing about her ?” This
creetur that ever stretched a trace, I’ll take you ! time, Marian looked pointedly at Adrienne,
right to your sister’s home in no time. That is, j “ I did not ask. .She was quiet and unobtru-
if your friends haven’t come for yon, and I don t ! sive, and a fine musician. Her eccentricity does
: not detract from her excellence as a teacher.
She had I Will you go up to your room, Marian ? I will
written soon after her aunt’s funeral, that she i order your baggage sent for early in the morn
ing.
When Marian was alone with her sister in the
glimpse into the heart of the writer. Marian
lelt tnis change with vague uneasiness that in
creased w’hen she discovered, in subsequent
letters, a tone of bitterness, ringing out sud
denly and shortly, like a chord that had been
unwittingly touched. More than once, this
bitterness was intensified into a cynicism, a
misanthropy so at variance with Adrienne’s char
acter, that Marian was startled, as though she
had seen a serpent suddenly rear its head from
the calla lily blooming in her window.
Something was wrong. What could it be?
Was it connected with her husband ? Her refer
ence to him had ben less and less frequent, un
til he was only’ mentioned incidentally in the
course of narration. Weariness and restless
ness alternated in the letters; interest in art and
in natural objects gave place to languid indif
ference. About only one thing did she write
with any enthusiasm—the beauty and nobleness
of one man’s character—that man, Aubrey De
Forest, her husband’s uncle, whom she met in
Paris, and who traveled with them afterwards
through Switzerland. She wrote thus of their
first meeting:
“I had gone early to the Flower Market, ac
companied by Abbe DBoulogny, the brother of
the Mother Superior at our Alma Mater Convent,
who had sent a letter to him by me. While I
was watching the picturesque figures, and list
ening to the shrill, pleasant chatter of women
and girls, I saw a man stop and bend down to
an old woman, tired and dusty-looking, who
was sitting on the ground with some bouquets
of pretty, common flowers spread out on her
was so worn as to be almost ill, and tbat there
were certain matters of business which her aunt
had greatly desired should he settled, and room that she was to call hers, she turned to
which sho could not conscientiously leave un- , Adrienne, placed her hands upon hershoulders
attended to. She had been fortunate in getting ! and looked long into her face. She saw there
She had grown more peevish, exacting and nn- ! these arranged more easily than she had ex-! the shadow she had feared to see. Lovely as the
reasonable. She rewarded Ylarian’s tireless care ! pected, and leasing the farm to the honest man J face was, it had changed. The childlike open-
with complaints and abuse. Often, in a sudden
paroxysm of pain or nervous irritability, she
would strike the girl as she knelt to rub her
limbs or lifted and dressed her as she would a
baby. It was worse than a slave's service; it
wore out soul and body; it was continuous,
monotonous, thankless; but Marian kept its
worst features to herself, tihe wrote little about
it to her sisters.
One day her trials had been harder than usual,
and she was glad to see the slow evening shad-
who had been her aunt's tenant so many years,
she started at once for her sister’s home.
They had passed fields of sea-island cotton,
rice and sugar cane, and a group of cabins that
Captair Head had pointed out as Mr. De For
est’s plantation and negro “quarter;” and the
sun was dropping near the horizon, when the
Captain turned on his seat, say in;
ness, the calm brightness were gone from it.
The eyes were clouded as with hidden grief, the
lips looked as though they had often curled in
bitterness.
“Adrienne, you are changed? What has
come over you ?” Marian asked in tones of an
guish.
She turned from the lamp and answered
ows creeping over the pine woods visible from level prospect, bounded by the silvery sea-line,
the window. Her heart gave a joyful throb a ! but not low like the little town she had left,
Here’s Cedar Bay, and yonder among them ; lightly:
oaks is Castle Dismal.” I “Changed! Certainly I am changed. Did
Marian saw before her another open, almost j you expect me always to keep that baby face ? I
' should be sorry if these two eventful years had
little later, when Sandy, the tenant’s son, tapped
lightly at the door, and thrust in his sturdy,
brown list, holding a letter he had just brought
from town. She dared not open it yet, for her
aunt was awake and nervous; and these letters
were especially irritating to her. Sue was jeal
ous of them and angry at the attention they
took from her, and at the effect they had upon
Marian—the longing apparent in the girl’s sad
face.
“ What are yon making that noise for?” she
said querulously, as she caught a slight rustle
of the envelope. “ You don't care how much
you worry me; you are on your head now; you’ve
got another of those letters from folks that don’t
care a snap for you, and only write their tine
letters here to crow over you and make you envy
their good fortune. And you’re just ninny
enough to -want to run after them to tie their
shoes and make yourself their humble servant.
and diversified by taller pines, tree palmettoes,
gnarled old cedars, and masses of gray lime
stone rock, embedded in the sandy ground, and
covered with patches of gray, bristly moss. At
the highest point of the prospeot rose the dark,
weather-stained building, hardly distinguish
able from the immense moss-hung live-oaks that
stood about it. Gloomy it looked against the
background of gray sky and dusky, far-off'
pines; and Marian wondered why Mr. De For
est should have chosen io bring his young bride
to this desolato place.
left no trace, so that my face would be like
Viola’s history, ‘a blank, my lord, a blank.’
They have not passed over you without record.
I see the stamp of patient endurance on your
brow, my Marian. Your face is like a flower the
sun has never shone upon, and I almost fear to
find silver threads in this dark hair.”
As she spoke, she unbound the rich mass of
hair, and stood combing and arranging it with
skillful fingers. Then she led Marian to the
window, saying:
“ Come and see the moon rise over the bay.”
The great globe had just lifted itself from the
lap. lie spoke kindly to her and bought all her ! More fool you !”
flowers, which he gathered up in a great bunch
in his hand, and divided between a pale,
sickly girl—aiseamstress, most likely—who had
been wistfully’ eyeing a bunch of pansies—and a
group of children, who received them with
shouts of joy. The man’s face attracted me. It
is strong, it is sweet, it is sad, I said to myself,
and there is a look in it of isolation, as of one
ent off from his kind in fate but not in sympa
thy. A Promethean face, Marian. I spoke of it
to the Abbe, and he said the man was known to
him; that he had seen him first, one night in
Florence, where he saved a woman from the
waters of the Arno; and afterwards, -when the
pestilence raged in Rome, so that all tied who
could, and there was lack of nurses, until a lew
noble spirits volunteered their services. Among
them came this man. He was most efficient,
calm, fearless of death, yet sympathizing deeply
with suffering, careless of his ease, patient, de
voted. ‘I never saw one like him.’ said the
Abbe. ‘ I will bring him to speak to you if you
wish. He is of your husband’s name, if 1 do
not mistake the pronunciation.’
“Marian, he was my husband’s uncle—the
Aubrey De Forest I wrote you we were to meet
in Europe—but I did not then know—I have
only lately learned (by accident)—that he was
also my husband’s benefactor, father, guardian.
It is strange Mr. De Forest should have spoken
to me so little about his uncle. He had not ex
pected to meet him until he reached Rome.”
Afterwards, while in Rome, Adrienne wrote:
“ We went to-day to visit the studio of Clarence
Lynn, the young English artist who is dying ot
consumption. At the threshold, we were sur
prised to see Aubrey De Forest’s St. Bernard
dog, and still more astonished, on going in, to
see the dog's master sitting before the easel fin
ishing Lynn’s picture of ‘David Repenting’—a
great work, which the artist has grown too fee
ble to complete, as he is anxious to do for the
sake of his fame, and the help the sale of it will
be to his wife and child. But he says his friend
is finishing it for him more carefully than he
could do, following and improving upon his
thought. So I learn that Aubrey De Forest is
un artist, as I have already found out that he is
u poet. Yet his is the most child-like nature I
ever knew—reverent and trusting, lull of genu
ine simplicity and truthfulness, with a humor
ous quaintness that makes him infinitely inter
esting. I fancy his spirit was one of child-like
Marian's stifled sigh was full of weary sadness,
but she made Miss Rachel's tea, and read her
the World newspaper until her heavy breathing
told she was asleep. Then she softly opened
her letter. A bank check fell from it, and tak
ing in rapidly the few lines it contained, she saw
that it was a passionate appeal for her to come
at once.
“ I can no longer keep back the cry that comes
from my soul. I need you, Marian. Circum
stances forbid me to go to you; come to me; I
need you m.ire than lean tell. Come, I beseech
you.”
It was the cry of a spirit no longer able to en
dure the repression imposed upon it; every
fibre of Marian’s being responded to the appeal.
Go she must—and yet . She looked at the
figure of her aunt, propped up in the cushioned
chair; a feeling of resentment rose within her;
and, struggling to repress it, she went noiselessly
out into the early, dewy night, and walked rap
idly up to the brow of the hill, where the pines
whispered in the starlight, and where, so long
ago, she had watched the carriage that bore her
sisters away. Absorbed in thought, she stood
there longer than she had meant, and suddenly
remembering her charge, she walked hurriedly
back and crept into the room. All was still.
Her aunt sat perfectly quiet in the old oak chair—
even her usual heavy breathing was now inau
dible. The dim candle-light fell over the old,
furrowed face, and as Marian looked at it with
remorse for her impatience, she saw that the
gray head had dropped from the cushion and
hung in a painful position. She stooped to lift
it back to its place. As she touched the wrin
kled cheek, its coldness made her start. She
lifted the head into the light; the glazed, half
open eyes, the slightly-distorted features, told a
tale which could not be mistaken. Miss Ra
chel’s sufferings were ended at last.
CHAPTER YI.
“Well, you are near your journey’s end now.
You can srneJl the salt marsli,” said the quaint
old man with the rugged face, frosty beard and
twinkling hazel eye, who had, since the evening
before, been Marian’s fellow-traveler on the
train, and who, having found out her destina
tion, had informed her that he too was going to
Cedar Bay; that he lived there, and was captain
of the “lighter” Spray, a “spry little craft,"
whose business it was to lighten the loads of
gayetv before the shadow fell over it that has j vessels too large to come into the port, and that
steeped it in melancholy; what this shadow j he was now returning from the next State, where
may be, I have often wondered.” he had been to get his little grand-daughter,
’ whose mother had died a year before, and whose
It was at another time, after a period which
she acknowledged to beone of depressed spirits,
that she wrote:
“I know Aubrey De Forest’s secret; I no
longer wonder that, with his profoundly sensi
tive and conscientious nature, it should have
isolated him from his fellow beings. I do not
wonder tbat there are times when he cannot
bear the presence even of his friends, but must
shut himself up in solitude and wrestle with
the memories of a strange and fateful past. The
darkness of those hours are for him alone. He
comes out from this struggle worn but calm,
and kinder than ever to everything around
him.”
Such was Adrienne's sketch of her husband s
uncle. In her letters at this time there was fre
quent mention of him- sometimes a word to ac
knowledge to whom she was indebted for her
feeling oi the more subtle beauty of a picture, a
statue, a landscape, or a musical composition.
“ I see it through the eyes of our poet,” she
would say. Sometimes it was mention of some
brother had been with him and his g®od wife
ever since he was a “ chap knee high.”
“ Look out, Miss. You can see the river and
the town, though there’s not much of that; and
yonder’s the chimney of my little craft. It’s
a mercy they aint blowed her np, or run her
aground, or something. YTrang heads are
mighty rash, and the Spray’s gettin’a bit tender
in her timbers,though she’ll weather it for many
a day yet. Don’t you lean out so far, Rosa.” For
the child’s curly head was thrust out in eager
curiosity.
Marian, too, looked out eagerly at the an
nouncement that she was nearing her journey’s
end. She saw a dreary prospect of flat, marshy
country, over which were scattered scrubby
pines, patches of gallberry bushes, and clumps
of palmetto: in the distance, a row of dingy
houses, and further on the gleam of water, the
At this moment her eye caught sight of three j sea; a long track of light quivered across the
figures outlined against the horizon, as they j rippled surface, and tbe mysterious radiance
stood upou the beach where the tide was coining | fell over the wide landscape and mixed with the
in, and the white gulls and prairie fowls were j shadows of the pines and cedars,
flying off to their roosts. Two of the figures; “It-is weird. 1 like the desolate grandeur of
were females; one, the smaller and lower, stood I this spot; but it docs not suit you, Adrienne,
near her male companion, and seemed looking i Why did you choose to live in such a lonely
up at him and listening to his talk; while the ! place—-you, who are so fitted for society ?”
other, a slender, willowy shape, stood apart in a ‘‘I fitted for society ? Y'ou are mistaken. I
I could not bear it,
am not fitted for society
now.”
“Adrienne, you cannot deceive, me; you are
not happy !” Marian cried, impulsively.
“Happy!” The look, the keen, bitter irony
of the tone were involuntary. Marian pierced
musing, abstracted attitude, gazing out upon
the sea.
“It is Adrienne,” thought the sister, “the
other is Alice, and the man is Adrienne’s hus
band.”
Telling Capt. Head she would join her sisters,’
she thanked him for his krttdness, promised the ! their meaning on the instant. She knew then
curly haired grand-child to come to see her soon, | that her forebodings were true—that this sister
and alighting from the rt-eliicle walked down j she loved so, this high-souled, rarely beautiful
toward the beach. As she approached, Alice 1 woman, was captive in her life, shipwrecked in
and her companion turr/'d a 3d looked at her. j her affections.
Eagerly Marian scanned the man’s features,] “Adrienne,” she groaned, “what has hap-
noted the calm open brow, the restful, kindly ! nened ? What is the secret of this chancre V"
eyes, the firm, proud, gentle mouth, and with a
feeling of relief, thought:
“Surely the shadow that has fallen upon
Adrienne cannot have come from him."
As she came nearer, Alice started toward her
with a cry of recognition, but stopped, as Adri
enne turning swittly, the blood rushing into her
pale face, stretched out her arms and was
clasped to her sister’s breast.
For more than a minute she remained with
her face hid in Marian’s bosom, her frame quiv
ering with tearless sobs. Then she raised her
head and averted it, when again her face was
turned to Marian, it was shaded by the light
silk scarf she had thrown over her head.
Questions and explanations followed, as to
Marian’s coming sooner than expected and re
grets that there had been no one to meet her.
“And now, I must know your husband,
Adrienne. I am sure by his face that I shall
like him,” the elder sister said, looking towards
the gentleman, who, with true delicacy, had
walked off a little way, but had watched the sis
ters’ meeting with sympathy shining in his
eyes.
A deep wave of color flowed into Adrienne’s
When the Creator saw the perplexity of their
thoughts, he called the angels around him and
explained to them hi- intention in h - creation
and the future destiny of man after his death,
isaid he :
“ I have made him a little lower than your
selves. though a brute he seems to be, having a
material body made from earth: I have at the
1 same time implanted within him my own divin
ity and immortality. His body tbat I took from
the earth will go buck to it. but his soul, or the
immortal part of him. will live throughout eter
nity, and be a partaker with you in the joys of
my heavenly Kingdom.”
“But,” asked tile angels, “where is that soul
of hi- ? We see it not, nor can we associate with
it. How, then, can he be an equal with us ? As
a creature of earth he is no companion for us,
for our tastes, joys and knowledge is far beyond
I his earthy comprehension ?”
| “ Y’ou shall know and see the mystery of his
| creation, and shall be to him a teacher and in-
! structor in things spiritual, when he takes on
his spiritual nature. For know ye, ye hosts of
! heaven, I shall be to bim a God and a Father, a
Savior and a Redeemer. Death has been decreed
I him, and die he must, but I have given to hjm
two natures; one ot flesh and the other of spirit.
! To you I have given but one nature like unto
1 myself, immortal and immaterial. Ye know
i nothing of death, time or space; he shall know
all and taste of all. io him, life shall be a pro-
: bation, a school, wherein his spiritual man shall
] grow' better or worse as lie uses bis body. With
I him there will be passions, propensities, and
j temptations; and as he resists the evil and chooses
the good, he will but prepare himself for an as-
! sociation with yourselves. For I have given
! him, with his dual nature, also a knowledge of
! good and evil, while you only know good.”
j After the death of his body yon will see his
j spirit, and 1 shall reward him as he has lived,
j His spiritual life will differ from yours in the
I fact that he will be conscious of having had two
j lives, and will enjoy his spiritual life by corn-
| parison with that of his temporal or earthly life. ”
j “But,” asked the angels, “will you love him
more thaD you do us? For you have wonder
fully made him, with a vast capacity for happi
ness ?”
“ I will not love the less, but I will love the
creature man, for the trials that will be his lot
and the manner in which he endures them. My
spirit will go out to him; my mercy will be great
towards him; my forgiveness and forbearanoe
will be long-suffering; but my anger, fierce and
consuming if he willfully persists in evil and in
sin. With him, he must inherit heaven as a gift,
not that he deserves it, but —by putting his faith
in me, and giving to me that worship which his
divine nature tbat I have implanted in him de
mands. It shall be acoouted in him merit, and
that merit will open to him the bright mansions
of my city, wherein he will greet the joyful for
ever.
Look not then upon the perishable and earthy
body of man, but upon his divine nature, for,
as I have created him above the beasts, which
perish, and only a little lower than yourselves,
so he shall ever be an object of my care and a
child of heaven, when he shall be born to a new
life through the womb of the grave, which will
give him up at my command.
“How poor, how rich, how abject, how angnst,
How complicate how wonderful is man !
How passing wonder He who made him such i
Who centered in our make such strange extremes.
An heir of glory ! A frail child of dust!
Helpless ! Immortal! Insect infinite I
A worm ! A God!
pened ? What is the secret of this change ?
“Do not ask me; I can never tell you. It is
nothing you can remedy, and to know it would
throw a cloud over you that would chill your
very brightest moments.”
“If I knew, could I not help you ?”
“No, it is a burden I must bear alone; it is
right that I should bear it alone. But you can
help me in other ways. I want your sustaining
affection; I want the sight of your true, good
face. I want you to teach me your secret of
calm endurance—teach me how to bear life.”
Her voice broke. Quickly she rallied and
took a lighter tone.
“Forgive me, Marian. It is selfish in me to
throw my cloud over you. You have had far too
much of clouds in your life. I did not mean it.
Your eyes, your questions probed me too keenly.
Do not think I am without hope. I have the hope
of making life here endurable to you, to Alice,
and even to me. We will have books and music;
we will have rides and rambles, and rows upon
the water. Alice has learned to be a good, oars-
woman, and she loves the woods like a gipsy.
We will have the society of Dr. Norris and his
stately mother -lady Washington redivivus—
and a few others. In the summer, there will be
face, ebbed quickly, and left it whiter than be- | visitors at the springs, and we will have gay
fore, as she said, quietly:
“Y’ou are mistaken. That is not my husband.
He is Dr. Norris, a friend of ours, who lives in
Newport, a little town two miles beyond St.
Marks, and quite a summer resort because of its
mineral water. We came to know him through
his attendance upou Alice during a dangerous
spell of fever. His mother, also, was exceed
ingly kind. Dr. Norris’ face does not contra
dict his character. He is a devoted son, a faith
ful friend, a good and true man. I am glad that
you will know him, Marian; he has heard of
you often. Let us join him now.”
As his eye and his hand met Marian’s in the
introduction that followed, a nearer look con
firmed her first impression. He looked a man
in whom men would rely, women would trust
and children would confide. As they walked
slowly towards the house, Marian again men
tioned Mr. De Forest.
“Is he at home?” she asked.
“ He is out in his boat on the bay, I think. It
may be late before he returns.”
Again that chill, calm tone. It repelled the
farther questions concerning Mr. De Forest that
rose to Marian’s lips.
They stood before the house. With her hand
upon the iron gate set ip the low wall of piled
limestone rocks, matted together with moss and
creeping vines, Adrienne said:
“I am sorry you could not have seen this
place first in the full light of the sun. It is
gloomy enough at best.”
Gloomy it certainly looked, with those great
live oaks shrouded in moss, standing one on
either side and flinging their vast shadows over
the walls. Built in the shape of a Greek Cross,
flutter of sails, and the sight of the rusty iron
pipe which Captain Head had pointed out as j the lower story of brick and gray plaster, the
the chimney of his spry cratt, the Spray. The upper cf wood, the outer walls were so discol-
gracefuTlittle surprise he had provided—a rus- j wheezy tram with its shabby cars steamed up to j ored by time, so covered with ivy and crusted
tic banquet come upon suddenly midway or at i the wharf, to which it was due three times a i with moss and mould (less from age than be-
the foot*of some mountain, spread on the rocks | week Gor this was only a short branch railway)
and served by broad-hatted peasant girls. Such ! to get what Ireight and passengers might be
a fete was described in a letter that was the last i brought in by schooners, fishing smacks, and
Marian received from her sister for a long and | the occasional large steamers that touched at the
anxious interval. This letter, written from j once busy,’but now little used port.
CLamouni, at the foot of the monarch moun
tain, ended in this way:
“To-morrow we make the grand ascent. I
leave my letter unfinished, that I may append
an account of our adventures and hair-breadth
'scapes, and enclose you a blossom ot the yen
A row of small shops, shanties and eating-
| houses straggled along the railroai on either
j side, headed by a bain-like, wooden hotel, in
i the piazza of which a draggled woman was
j promenading. Indeed, everything about the
j place had a draggled, amphibious look, and
tiana- nivalis, plucked blue and dazzling from the puddles of water appeared in the yards, the
brink of a precipice or a cleft in some desolate j walks and beds of which were bordered with
• • ” r j conch-shells and pieces ot white coral. A few
y h u t u0 sketch of the excursion was added— ! larger buildings, in a state oi mi .pidation, were
nothina but Adrienne's initials, traced in a | scane ed around, and Captain Head pointed out
trembling hand, at the bottom of the page. At- j near the waters edge, the rums of an old Spau-
cause of the moist, warm climate) that the origi-
company if we like. Above all, you will have
rest and ease, and to see you at last possessed of
these, will be my best happiness. Come, now,
let me take off this dusty traveling-dress
and put something cool and fresh upon
you. It is fortunate we are nearly the same
size; my dresses will fit you, and you will not
mind being without your trunk till to-morrow.”
While she helped Marian with her toilet, she
talked gaily, as if trying to make her sister lose
sight of the gloomy confession that had escaped
her lips. But though Marian spoke of it no
more her mind was filled with the thought—
* ‘what is the secret of this unhappiness—this
despair ?”
That it was connected with Mr. DeForest, she
could not doubt, and her anxiety to see him in
creased. But when they went below, into the
lighted and richly but sombrely furnished par
lor, only Alice and Doctor Norris were there.
TO BE CONTINUED.
For the Sunny South.
Debate Upon Man’s Creation.
BY It. M. O.
When the angels, says tradition, saw the crea
ture man, as he came from the hands of the Cre
ator, they were struck with his resemblance to
themselves in figure and form, and as man looks
upon tfle Orang-outang, Chimpanzee, Gorilla
or Gibbon, a brute in man’s form, walking upon
two legs, but still a brute without language or a
soul, so looked the angels upon man. They
commented upon the caricature as a source of
angelic curiosity or study, but that he could or
would be an associate with them, and be capa
ble of enjoying heavenly delights never entered i
their celestial minds.
Man, they said, was a creature of earth, made
gatkerii
nat materials of the structure could hardly be j from it; a creature of time,place and habit, and,
guessed. j being a material creature, it was with him labor
As Marian stepped within the shadow cast by ] and effort to go from place to place, while they,
this gloomy house a strong shudder seized her. j being immaterial, moved with the celerity of
Again the mist swam before her; again as she i thought from sphere to sphere among the
looked at Adrienne, who walked before, she saw j countless stars. He was an animal a few grades
higiier than the others, but nevertheless an ani
mal. Such were their consultations and talk
among themselves.
But what was their surprise, not to say an
gelic jealousy, to behold the Great Creator hold
converse witn the creature man, and to see that
he comprehended and worshipped his creator.
No brute had ever done that, and was an eartfily
the dim images of pain and death
about her sister’s figure.
The vision lasted nardiy a second, yet it left
a shuddering feeling of dread. Was it a pre
sentiment ? and was it an ill omen -that strange
figure which met her just beyond the threshold ?
the figure of a woman, tall and statue-like,
wrapped in a drapery of gray serge and with a
black, hood-like covering drawn over her head j creature to be made an equal and a sharer with
so as to hide ali trace of hair and shade her ! them in the blessings and delights of heaven?
The Poets, Personally.
William Cullen Bryant recently celebrated his
eighty-second birthday, having been born Novem
ber 3, 1794, >n Comington, Mass. He looks little
three-score-and-ten, having still an erect figure
and elastic step. He shows his vigor and fond
ness for exercise by walking, as be quaintly puts
it, “ every morning down to his Evening Post.”
The poet’s head and face are covered with a liberal
supply of silvery locks, and he rather takes a pride
in seeing his classic and venerable self as others
see him, for there is scarcely a photographer in
town who has not a fine portrait of Bryant. At
public dinners he may often be seen, and at speech-
making lie is not at all backward. Althoguh he
is frequently to be met in thestreetsof the city, he
rarely attends the opera or theatre. Mr. Bryait
writes so little poetry he may be said to have laid
down the lyre; but of general literary and journal
istic labor he still perforins a great deal of work.
Mr. Tennyson, now sixty-six years old, is still
in the prime of thought and capacity for work.
The only ill he is heir to is an annual hay fever-
He is six feet high, broad shouldered and large
boned, but not stout. His hands and feet are large.
His face is long, and somewhat resembles that of
Dante, save that it has not the rigid mould and
expression of the great Florentine, and the nose is
not so aquiline. His hair is long and black, his
complexion olive. Once upon a time, in speaking
of Mr. Tennyson’s personal appearance, Buchanan
Read called him “ a dilapidated Jupiter”—a piece
of description at once picturesque, acute and hu
morous.
Whittier is sixty-eight years old and a most
quaint, kindly, and refined person, using habitual
ly the Quaker 11 thee ” and “ thou.”
Henry W. Longfellow is a year older, and wears
well the dignity of the gentleman and the poei.
Lowell is fifty seven, and has the look of the crit
ic rather than the poet.
Stoddard is tiffty-six years old, about five feet
nine inches high, and wears a full iron gray beard.
This author looks every inch a poet, and in conver
sation is bright and witty. For fifteen years he
“ fed at the public crib” in the custom service;
but now his whole time is occupied in contributing
to the magazines and newspapers. The right hand
being paralyzed, Mr. Stoddard has learned to write
with his left. Stoddard’s wife is a writer of no
mean ability, and has made a reputation for her
self in the literary world.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich, just forty years of age,
was born in New Hampshiie; laid the foundation
for his reputation in New Y’ork; wrote “ Babie
Belle ” while he was in his teens, and dow resides
in Boston. Aldrich’s reputation as a poet and
novelist is increasing and improving, foreign crit
ics of high authority placing him among the first
American writers He has had some experience
as an editor and literary critic, having commenced
his career in the office of the Home Journal. Al
drich has a wife and several children.
William Morris, the poet, lives in a charming
house in London, brightened by the presence of a
beautiful wife and three pretty children. H'«e
study is reached by three flights of stairs , and dii
a bare room, hung with lumps of tobacco, aiteu
having for writing purposes a curious hacked ta-* 8
ble and an aucieut inkhorn. Herein the “ Earth
ly Paradise” was written. The shaggy-haired,
kind-faced poet never looks handsomer than when
his little ones are dancing about him aud climb
ing over him.
Truth is immortal : the sword cannot pierce it,
fire cannot consume it, prisons cannot incarcerate
it, famine cannot starve it.
Behavior is a mirror in which every one shows
his own image. There is a politeness of the heart
akin to love, from which springs the easiest polite
ness of outward behavior.
Beauty, like the flowering blossoms, soon fa
but the divine excellence of the mind, like
medical virtues of the plant, remains ia it
all those charms are withered.
jjgTlNCT
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