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“It will not do that without something worse than disagreeable. That's the way these spells usually wind np. These long, cloudy, foggy spells. We’ll have a blow and a high tide about the full of the moon. I've been fixing the * Spray ’ to stand it. I was hard at work on her yesterday.” “Captain Head,” said Marian, speaking sud denly what had been all along in her mind, “you came home late last night, and went into your room. I was on the piazza, and I heard your wife exclaim—‘Why, Captain, what is the matter? You look as white as if you had seen a ghost.’ You answered something in a lower tone. I only caught a few disconnected words. May I know what your reply was? I do not ask from impertinent curiosity; I have a motive.” “Certainly miss, you may know. I am only afeard you may think me foolish and supersti tious; but, before God, I saw the t-iing, and” I don’t know what it was any more than'the. man in the moon, and I can’t account for it in no way.” "What was it?” asked Marian; breathlessly. “Well, yesterday evening, after a hard day’s work on the ‘ Spray,’Jep and I were pulling into the bay a little before sunset, when V^*on,-. eluded to go a little further down and dry kiie, bass and catfish at the mouth of the river—the Woclocnee, you know. They'll bite there when they won’t bite anywhere else. We had but in- diffent luck, and went considerably up stream trying for better. After dark, the blue cat be gan to bite livelier. The moon shone, and we stayed late. We were pulling for home in the cloudy moonlight, Jep steering and I at the oars. Just as we were well out into the middle of the bay, the boy cried out, low and fright ened-like, and I looked up, and there—as sure as you and I are living, miss,—there, crossing our very track, was a boat, with no living crea ture in it, but a woman dressed all in white, sitting up as stiff a corpse, and paddling as noiseless as a breath. Miss Marian, you will say it was imagination, but as God shall judge me, the tkee looked to me to be the same we put away in the coffin two days ago.” “Did you speak to it?” “I couldn’t. I’ve weathered many a gale in my time, but I could’t hail a craft manned like that. I'll tell the truth, my heart came in my throat. I never felt so awful in my life. The boat shot past us like a gull, and I pulled at the oars with all my might, muttering pater nosters as fast as my tongue could patter. When I looked back, there was nothing of the boat to be seen.” The apparition again!—this time upon the water, and on the same night when it was seen by Jeannette on shore. What did it mean? Could it have any significance for her? any bearing upon the one purpose that absorbed her soul? The thought came to her with sudden force. She turned and walked away. She must be alone to revolve this new thing "in her mind. She retraced her steps along the road that led to the Shadowed House; she passed it, seeing only Socrates sitting forlornly on the door-steps, and walked on, stopping at last on a little ridge behind a clump of palmetto trees in which the evening breeze was rustling. Leaning against one of these, she once more confronted the query that had flashed into her mind with such startling power. This apparition, might it not have some connection with Adrienne's fate? Could it be, indeed, a spirit? Was God send ing a messenger from beyond the grave to reveal the dark mystery hanging over Cedar Bay ? To make an effort to see this spectre herself,— this was what Marian determined upon. This messenger might be sent to her. She resolved to meet it—to speak to it—to follow it—to find out if it was flesh and blood, or if indeed it were incorporeal essence—and to discover, if possible, the object of its appearance. When Marian again turned her steps home ward, the sun had set. Its last clouded reflection touched luridly the gabled roof of the house and the tops of its gloomy live oaks. She glanced at the wing of the building occupied by Mr. De For est. In his room the lamp was already lighted. Through the open window she saw him sitting within. At a point of the path nearest the house she stopped still for one moment to look at man, whose slightest movement and posture had now a keen interest for her. He sat in his luxurious chair, but its luxury 'seemed to im part no ease to him. His attitude expressed at once weary wretchedness and anxious thought. His head was bent slightly forward, one arm was thrown across the table, the other hung from his side to the floor. As Marian watched him, he rose suddenly to his feet and came and stood at the window, raised a field-glass to his eyes and swept the sea in the direction of the Spanish Hole—the deep anchorage for vessels— the direction in which, if a steamship had ar rived, its sail or smoke might be seen. "He is looking for the vessel he is to leave on,” Marian thought. “I will not delay, I will make the attempt this night to see this apparition that is haunting Cedar Bay.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) LOST. A ROMANCE. BY JOHN C. FREUND, AUTHOR OF 44 BY THE ROADSIDE. ” The Pleasure of Doing Good. A miserly farmer returning home one day from delivering a load of hay, was overtaken by a severe rain. The only shelter near was a shed-like house where a poor widow had lately died. Stopping his team he ran to the front door, which was partially protected by boards projecting from the roof. Standing close to it he heard tender voices within, and listened to ascertain what was being said, when he was surprised by the following little prayer: “ Heavenly Father, ma told us before she died that you would take care of of us and give us some bread. Now, sister and me are very hungry, and wr have no one to help us. Please, Heavenly Father, send us some bread. ” This hit the old man in a tender part. Still he might have endured it had the matter ended there, but it did not. When the boy seemed exhausted, and knew not what more to say, a little girl prayed in still more pathetic strains: “ O Lord please send brother and me some bread, ma said you would, and we are very hungry. ” This was too much for the miser’s heart, hard and selfish as it was. He could stand it no longer, and hurried home. Without saying a word to his wife he took his big basket and went down into the cel lar and filled it with the best eatables he could find, embracing pies, cakes, apples, etc., heaping it up as he did not when he sold corn, and hastened back to the door in the rain, and finding the suffer ers still at prayer, he pushed right in and set his basket before them and invited them to eat, which they were more than willing to do. It was a good time for them, but better for him. They said to each other, “ We thought what mother told ns was true, but we did not expect the Lord would answer our prayers in thid way. ” When they were fully satisfied, the old man emptied his basket and told the dear orphans how to take care of their food, and gave them many kind words, for all of which they thanked him from their inmost hearts. He then went home and in formed his wife what he had done, and confessed that though it had been a pretty hard day, it was the happiest one of his life He had struck a mine he hid never dreamed of before, and had proved that there was something better than money. “ He that watereth shall be watered also himself. ”— Poier’s Winniny Worker. Manners are the shadows of virtues: the mo mentary display of those qualities which fellow creatures love and respect. If we strive to become then, what we strive to appear, manners would often be rendered useful guides to the performance of our duties. CHAPTER I. YOUTHFUL DAYS. Castle Freiberg was a beautiful place; it lay at the foot of the giant mountains in Silesia. Beeches, elms, oaks, and limes overshadowed the old grey building; the lovely terraces at the back bore signs of superior floral culture, and below, near the terraces, glimmered the roman tic lake. Swans moved gracefully on it, and round’it the reeds and rushes whispered fairy secret, while harbouring the chaste, shy moor- fowls, as it sombrely called to his mate. Beyond rose in gradual heights the mountains, clad by- thick verdure below, by the tall pine above, and losing the#r blueish heads in the distance of the j^skies. Round the castle extended no grand £park; but yellow fields and green meadows; cottages of red brick and thatched huts lay scat tered about, as if under the very eye of their I owner. Castle Freiberg was a beautiful place; it look- I ed like some mansion of the wealthy, not shut out from the rest of humanity by aristocratic surroundings, but protecting and embracing the more modest homesteads near it, and oversha dowing them with parental instinct. May had just opened its cornucopia round Castle Freiberg. It had clothed the trees with sweet green leaves, it had dressed the meadows with daisies and butter cups, had given to the fields the swelling young corn, and to the rich terraces behind the castle the dainty blossoms of the earliest flowers; everywhere it spoke: it spoke in the frog that gloated with protruding eyes near the brook; it spoke in the May-beetle as it fluttered hither and thither on the lime; it spoke in the thrush as it trilled in the thicket; and it spoke in the faint, little butterfly, that was just drying its newborn wings in the soft May sunbeam. A boy was rushing after that one tender butter fly on the terrace; such a boy ! The impersona tion of boyish beauty and strength, the forehead a little too much developed, the eye almost too bright, making one fear for the tenderness of the intellect within. Heated and flushed, the little fellow stood still, listening to the sound of approaching wheels, and calling out: “ Hurrah ! hurrah ! here come my papa and mamma!” The carriage stopped; the boy ran down the terrace, round the corner of the building, and, looking towards the carriage, said disappointed ly: “Oh, how funny! It is uncle William and Sergeant Christian. Where can they be? Uncle! uncle ! here I am; don’t you see me? Uncle.it is little Hermann.” But uncle William did not seem to hear; he went with heavy step into the lodge, from it fur ther on, across the courtyard into the castle by a side entrance; so little Hermann had to run on towards the carriage and pull Sergeant Chris tian’s coat, before he was noticed. “Sergeant Christian, where are they, my papa and mamma ?” “ Where are they, Herman? where are they? Well, they have not come.” “And why have you left them?” “Why have I left them? Ah, why have I left them ?” “ SergeanhChristian, why do you look so black, and why did my uncle walk like that? Oh, something is the matter !” “Little Hermann should not ask so many questions.” “ Sergeant Christian, now I see you have got tears in your eyes! Oh, take me up in your arms—I will wipe them away; but tell me, where is my papa and where is my mamma?’ Sergeant Christian took the boy up in his arms, while the tears were fast running down his cheeks. “Oh, Sergeant Christian, I have never, never seen you cry before; I see it, I know it, my papa and mamma are dead !—oh, they are dead ! they are dead ! The King and Queen never could want them all that time.” Hermann hid his curly head on the soldier’s arm, and man and child wept together. The next day the travelling carriage stood again at the castle entrance; uncle William was taking leave in the big library of little Hermann, while tiny Mary, just one year old, was being prepared to be taken away by old nurse Martha. Sobbing and handshaking were going on, just as when human chords are cut roughly asunder, and the ends are left loose, bleeding and aching with pain. Uncle William and Sergeant Chris tian were standing near the window. “ Christian, I can say no more. I confide these children to you; stop with Hermann in Breslau till I join you, but take Martha first to little Mary’s aunts; they are prepared to receive her. It will take me another week here to seal up papers, to settle everything, and leave the place under the care of Mrs. Dornbush, the worthy old house-keeper. I shall discharge all the other servants. The agent can manage the estate. You, Christian, are alone aware of the extent of this heavy calamity.” One kiss for sobbing Hermann, one more for unconscious little Mary, and uncle William was left behind, alone in the castle of Freiberg. Months after, the first snowflakes were whirl ing and curling round Torgau, the sentries were walking faster before the bastions to keep them selves warm; the firm, smart soldiers were marching out of the castle for exercise, looking rather fresher and ruddier than usual, and the officers a little less nonchalant, as they escorted their companies. The early errant snowflakes were struggling down, like the vanguard of the dense regiments behind; they settled on the old Gnildhali and the market-place, as it enjoyed the busy turmoil of market-day; they rested on the wagons loaded with potatoe, corn, and wheat sacks, on the bags of rosy apples, on the baskets filled with bright, fresh butter, and they flew past the worthy housewives, who, with sturdy maids by their sides, were buying their provisions for the week. The snowflakes cares singly touched the dainty officers' wives and daughters, as they passed by in their new, warm winter toilettes, to pay their morning visits, and the flakes did not rest on dirty little street boys for there were none to be seen. The big clock in the Guildhall struck twelve; and then immediately out poured the boys and girls from the large school-house. The girls from the high school did not stand and look at the unloading of the new furniture oppo site the pretty house on the esplanade—as daugh ters of the gentry, they would have thought it vulgar to have done so. The girls from the burgher school did stand still and nudge each other, as package after package was taken into the house. The boys looked, stared, and ran on, forgetful of the fact that new people were com ing there, and rejoicing in the more pleasurable faot of an hour's play in the sharp, crisp morn ing. A bright boy rushed about that house near the Esplanade: looking from the window, he called out: “Oh, Sergeant Christian, this is a jolly place! Look at the large school-house and the Esplan ade, and the lots of boys and girls running out. I do like this better than Breslau and Berlin, and I shall like it almost as well as Castle Frei berg; but I forgot I must not speak of that. Do come, Sergeant Christian, and look out; it’s such j a jolly, jolly, bright place! Shall I go to school there, and will sister Mary come too, to go to . school?” * But Sergeant Christian was busy, and little Hermann had to put question, give answer, and satisfy his own curiosity os best he could. By Christmas-time—for the snowflakes came early in November—the house on the Esplanade was ready—simple, cosy and warm. Major von Zollwitz inhabited it with his nephew Hermann and Sergeant Christian; having added to the household but one comely female servant from | the Torgau district. Christmas brought with 1 it a visitor, a tall, dignified gentleman in a long black coat, called Professor Holmann, who shook hands silently with the Major, nodded to Chris tian, and had long consultations with both, Christian always keeping respectful guard at the door. Christmas-day, that dear, old time, when sorrow holds back for a day, when joy redoubles its intensity for a period, when in a material sense something like the universal harmony of love seems to reign, when children live in the j heyday of pleasure and delight, mixed with un- definable secrets about presents—Christmas-day came also to that house, near the Esplanade, j The Major and the Professor talked and stood at the frozen window, looking out on the snowy landscape, and Christian made an effort to pro duce a Christmas-tree for Hermann. It was lit up in the evening. Hermann began to clap his hands and enjoy the sigljU of the pretty play things, but suddenly a whirl of sad remembrance rushed over his childish heart, and, running to Christian, with whom he always sought sympa thy, he grasped with his little hands the old Sergeant’s big ones, sobbing out: “Oh, Christian, Christian, but baby-sister Mary is not here, and papa and mamma are gone, and I am alone; oh ! take me away from the bright tree; it makes me feel all the sadder ! Hermann was carried, bitterly weeping, to bed; and that Chrismas-day was over. And time flew by, missing nothing, grasping in its concentrated littleness the existence of the atom, and kissing in its searching immensity the very confines of eternity; over the house in Tor gau it also flew, breathing a mournful cadence as it hovered around its portals. With its flut tering wings Time neither swept the sorrow from the hearts of those men, nor did it stem the youthful bound of that child’s spirit: still Time flew on, and brought in its sixth yearly round once morejoyous jSbristmas-tide, dashing some flashes of hope inft> the bright room, that was lit up by another Christmas-tree. Around this tree sprang two children—Hermann, now ten years old, and sister Mary, nearly seven; gravely Major von Zollwitz stood by, compla cently Professor Holmann enjoyed the children’s glee, and respectfully Sergeant Christian kept watch at the door. Herman and Mary in Torgau—Torgau covered by the snowflakes, harbouring the memories of centuries, and proud and contented with its present position—Herman and Mary danced round the tree of light, and gathered bright re miniscences from its bountifulness. At play they were next day with their treasures between them; Hermann had a wonderful camp of Austrians and Prussians, and was again and again performing the battle of Torgau, knock ing over his enemies with the utmost ease and bravery, winding up generally by a famous speech of King Fritz, when he found, after a doubtful night’s suspense, that his old general had kept the field. “But you shouldn’t play at soldiers at Christ mas,” said sweet little Mafy. “Aunt Augusta would say that it was wicked and un-Christian.” “Nonsense ! Profess^" j^olni,ann. knows better than aunt AugustaffeffiSyJf tuat has nothing to do with it. It is in'human nature, he told me only yesterday, to go to war; everybody tries to cut out everybody else all the year round, in a business-like way; and when lots of people want to cut out lots of other people, then it makes more noise, and they do it rather rougher, cutting at each other’s throats instead of at each other’s property; but business-like it must be done, else it would be dishonest. And don’t I do it right? Look, I give the Austrians fair play ! Professor Holmann says the bigger nations will get, the less war we shall have. Why, we don’t have half so many wars, Professor Holmann says, as the old Greeks and Romans had; they were always at it. But you don’t un derstand that; you are still a baby.” “ I am not a baby! Look here, I have christen ed my doll, Hermann, and the doll has had the fever, and it has died, and I buried it, and did not cry a bit; for aunt Augusta says I am a child that must learn to bear anything, for I shall have to do it one day, and I dont know what she means.” “ And you wouldn’t cry a bit if I, your brother Hermann, were to die ?” “ I don’t know that; but I mustn’t cry when my doll dies, because aunt Augusta says I must learn to bear anything, and not be weak-minded like other people.” “I think aunt Augusta is a fool to put such things into a baby's head like yours, and I shall tell her so.” “No you won’t, because she is kind to me, and I shall take her part ; and if you do, I won’t cry when you really do die.” “You hard-hearted little vixen! with your sweet doll’s face, you are as bad as aunt Augusta herself. Why, my soldiers are twice as soft: they would all cry if they saw a brother die, suppose they had shot him themselves. 1 shall tell Professor Holmann how aunt Augusta brings you up.” “ I don’t care, I must learn to bear everything, and I mean to; you may try to frighten me. Look here, I have not a tear in my eye;” and Mary dragged her eyes open with both her little forefingers, as children are wont to do. “Your bravery is all very well, but for a baby like you it is put on, and won't last, trust me; I am the boy for that, and I have promised Ser geant Christian never to swerve, never to be a coward, but to meet any trouble like an honest, bave man, and not give up. That is the right thing, not your false courage; I'll make you cry novo, if you won’t do it a my death, you cruel girl, and I will tco.” Hermann rose up with threatening gestures; Mary screamed, and both rushed ou( of the room to Sergeant Christian for assistance and sympa thy, always looking for it, and always finding it there. Mary had been on a visit for Christmas, and Mary went again to her aunt Augusta in Breslau —her destiny being foreshadowed by that pecu liar education of renunciation. Hermann re mained in Torgau, and grew up under the guar dianship of Major Zollwitz and Sergeant Chris tian, Professor Holmann coming now and then from Halle to see his young favourite. Hermann went to school at the big school- house, and became the champion of his own set. He was beloved, he was disliked, he was feared; his masteis left his reins freer play than those of any other boy in the school. For was he not Hermann Zollwitz, the most outspoken, true hearted, undaunted boy in the place? “Hur rah for Zollwitz ” had long been a standard word among the boys ! Hear him recite Kcerner's “Black Brigade,” or Shiller’s “Diver”—it was splendid, and the sympathies of the boys rose to the pitch, to cry “Hurrah for Zollwitz,” again and again. But Hermann was the terror of cowards, and an explosion between one of them and him came one day. The boys were playing at ball before the sciiool-house, and Captain Ernest’s son, a big uncouth fellow of fourteen, had just taken advantage of and thrashed a wiry little boy of humbler parents, who came up crying to Her mann. “Look here, Ernest, this won’t do,” said Hermann, red with rage; “it is disgraceful that a big fellow like you should hurt a little one merely for throwing a ball awkwardly. •’ “ It's not your business; I can do as I like, I suppose.” “But it is my business; I am in the play, and Franz has appealed to me as his champion. " “ A fine champion you are !’’ sneered the Cap tain’s son. “Pray, what is against my championship, Mr. Ernest ?” Hermann exclaimed in thunder ing tones, going up close to the coward's face, and holding his fist in ominous proximity to Ernest’s nose. “ Your championship? Well, then, if people want to be champions for others, they onght 1 first to have fathers and mothers that own them!” It cut sharp, and it cut quick, to the very flesh of Hermann Zollwitz; crack, crack, crack, thump, thump, thump, and Captain Ernest's son lay sprawling on the ground. “Give in! give in!” cried the other boys; “ Zollwitz, don’t, don’t, please; you'll kill him.” Hermann wiped his brow, looked at his hands, and, standing over his antagonist, asked hoar sely: “ What did you mean, scoundrel, bv that foul ! talk ?" “It isn’t my fault,” whimpered the other in agony; “I heard my mamma say that it was strange the Zollwitz children didn’t seem to j have father or mother.” A final kick for his cowardly enemy, a final “Hurrah for brave Zollwitz,” from the boys, j ended that day’s work. There was a shindy in the school. Captain j Ernest’s son was ill for a week; Hermann was ! reprimanded, and his uncle was privately told that he had better take such a fiery spirit away. On the evening of that self-same day, when the notice came, Major Zollwitz was sitting in the back room on the first floor, and Hermann, now j grown to the age of fourteen, opposite him. Hermann tried to occupy himself, but it would j not do; at last he seemed to gather courage, and | looked up at the Major with his big, honest j eyes. “Uncle William, you know all about it, and I think I am old enough now for you to tell me. Uncle, I don’t know how to bring it out, for it chokes me almost—is there any dishonour on my father or mother?” Breathlessly Hermann awaited the answer. The Major passed his hand across his brow, thought for a moment, and then met Hermann’s gaze. “None to affect their children, my boy; what j wrong they did was done in the heat of passion, and recoiled upon themselves. They have suf fered, leave them alone, you may look the world straight in the face; but you must learn to curb that spirit, which wrought their misfortune. Learn to govern yourself.” The Major stroked his nephew’s hair, and pressed him close to his heart. Holmann was sent to Halle under Professor Holmann’s care, and the youthful days were over. The glasses clinked, the lights flickered, and the shadows danced frantically about, as they threw back the images on the walls. “A ditty, a ditty.” they exclaimed, “''{to will'sing to night?' Zollwitz, you must for the 1 Down went the hammer, and Zollwitz, throw ing back his head, sang with glass in hand: •jin*’ to liberty, liberty, liberty, Sins to liberty as your aim: Sin*’ to liberty, liberty, liberty, Sing to liberty for your fame! Hurrah 1 Let but worth o’ man, worth o’ man. worth o' man, Let but worth o’man fan your soul; Let but worth o’ man, worth o’ man. worth o man. Let but worth o’ man be your goal! Hurrah! Give to woman dear, woman dear, woman dear, Give to woman dear, love, her right! Give to woman dear, woman dear, woman dear. Give to woman love, holy, bright ! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! And the chorus joined, the chorus shouted, the Enthusiasts embraced, singing again and again: Give to woman dear, woman dear, woman dear, Give to woman love, holy, bright 1 Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! The climax had been reached, the spirits sank; the singer, the leader, the inspiration of the Enthusiasts’ Club must go; no one dared even question Zollwitz resolution: to them what he did was well done, whatever the old Major and the rector might think. “But what will Professor Holmann say about your going ?” asked some. “Say? let me go; he will not stop me; but let me work out my own way, trusting to me. Be sides, he is away just now.” “Professor Holmann, Hoch!” was the next toast. “I have written to my uncle, and I have written to the rector, that I must get away. Study od, brothers, study on, and keep your en thusiasm fresh and undefiled: my soul is too ardent for this. I must go and work, and learn what the world is made of. I am drawn over by some unseen power, some undefined sympa thy; I must see England.” Zollwitz sat down, shaded his eyes, and waved his hand. They understood him, they left; so noisy before, so still now. The lights flickered, the shadows crept to rest, and Zollwitz was left alone—alone with the longings of his own burn ing heart. (TO BE CONTINUED.) CHAPTER II. OLD ENGLAND. The University of Halle had reckoned its age by little more than a hundred years, having during that time counted in its diadem of glory men of the first stamp, when the fell swoop of the invaders cast it under foot. Napoleon shut its doors, after that miserable battle of Jena, when Prussia succumbed to him. He turned off the students, and led the professors off as hostages. Halle never recovered from that blow; true, its doors were opened again, and its pro fessors’ chairs resuscitated, but it would not do, the bright era of full benches at lectures was gone. The professors proved too independent, the students restive, under the foreign yoke, and Napoleon shut again its halls of learning and led away its professors to the Rhinelands; but another battle—that of Leipzig—changed all that, it cleared the German soil, and once more Halle opened wide its gates, receiving back professors and students as they returned from the teeming battle-fields. Halle came into favour; the Prussian kings heaped benefits on it; it grew, was incorporated with the University of Wittenberg, where poor Hamlet in anachro nistic Shakespearianism is said to have studied and—for all that, never quite recovered that first period of renown. The early September days of that month, when Torgau lay lurid in the yellow haze, had spread over Halle—the place was astir; the students swaggering, the professors teaching, che people buying and selling. Thought was at work and would take fantastic shapes here and there, and would gambol with men's fancies and women’s loves, and thought had got into a nook at Halle, playing odd harmonies to the old, old tune of enthusiasm. Follow that spray of darkling September evening light into the room there in the old house near the market-hall, let your vision ride slantingly on it among the guests. A long room with shadowy haunts and odd corners, low ceiling and whispered reminis cences of bouts and meetings, songs and speeches ad infinitum. A dozen young men or so sit around, smoking, talking, reciting, laugh ing, gesticulating, and enjoying to their utmost the consciousness of life in their veins, life in their hearts, perhaps life in their heads. You hear again and again the refrain: Edite, bibite, Collegiales, Post multa secula, pocula nulla. “What is the German’s fatherland?” breaks j in in stirring strains; ” Ade, Ade, my love, I j must go!" follows it up; and one Stentorian voice exclaims: “Where is he to-night? Where can Zollwitz be ? Time is up, some one must take the chair.” “Not yet, worth while to wait; there is none like him here.” And again those dozen bright spirits, with long flowing hair and loose shirt-collars, begin the refrain of the most favoured student song. A hasty, light, but firm step, the door is pushed open, and Zollwitz enters. “Late, Zollwitz,” they call out. “Lights !” is the rejoinder. One younger than the others closes the shut ters, brings lights, and the darkling shadows flee farther off to watch and to wait for the shapes might cast off in grotesque fantasie. Three times the hammer is knocked on the table, Zollwitz stands up and opens the proceed ings. “Enthusiasts, brothers, we can have but a ' short meeting to-night. I must take leave of you; I am going to England !” “What? What is the matter?” “ I have had a wigging from my uncle, and I have got a threat in my pocket that if I continue to belong to liberty societies a complaint will be made to the rector. I have made speeches, I ; have led processions, I have sung and said that which shows I have no idea of state authority. I am being watched ! I shall leave. I am de termine to see if Europe still holds something of that old spirit of liberty, to let man talk and act like a free man—a free man by nature, a free man by thought, a free man by speech, and a j free man by government. To Old England I go; if I cannot find this spirit where the shades of Saxon freedom waft over me, pereat rnuwlus Europceus! I'll go to America, to New England, and hunt the wild buffalo with the Red Indians —to be free, free, free !" And Zollwitz towered above his companions, who rose to a man. Freheit—liberty ! Hoch ' Manneswerth—worth o' man I Hoch ! Frauenlied—woman's loveHoch I EXTRACTS From the Alumnae Essay read by Mrs. Lily Randall Clark at the Commencement of College Temple, Newnan. Women and Science, Art, Litera ture etc. Woman it is said by some cavilers is incapa ble of grasping the mighty volume of the abstract science, yet there are illustrious women that have drunk deep draughts at this fountain and upon whose brow unfading laurels have been placed. Instance, Gabrielle De Ch’atelet, the fel low student of Voltaire. Maintaining her unwa vering faith in Deity she traveled with him through the sublime mazes of philosophy, and wrote her name only lower than that of Newton. And later, Miss Somerville expanding into inter- lectual grandeur under an American sky,scanned and measured the starry vault above us, and we have as the fruit of her labor and reflection the Geography of the heavens thoroughly and accu rately mapped out for our instruction. Conspicu ous for learning was Madam De Stael equal in power but different in manifestation was Han nah Moore, who was forced from the retirement most congenial to her, to receive the homage which her genius exacted. In poetry and song woman’s name is illustrious; even in classic Greece a woman won for herself the title of the 10th Muse. ’Twas there that Sappho loved and sung while poets and philosophers hung enrap tured on her strains and crowned her with ever lasting bays. Enriched by the efforts of woman, our own more rugged language has been turned to rythmical numbers at once eloquent and sublime. We are all familiar with the tender ness and vigor of Mrs. Hemans, the pathos of Mrs. Norton and the sublimity of Mrs. Brown ing. In the fine arts, our country women Har riet Hosmer and Vinnie Reames have demon strated that modeling is not confined to strong er hands and that woman can use the chisel as skillfully as the needle of the housewife. Nor has any painter ever represented the forms of animal life more faithfully than Rosa Bonheur; while Miss Thompson's three great battle pic tures have wrung even from bitterly prejudiced, fastidious Ruskin the praise of being the won ders of the age, as bold in conception as they are finished and fine in detail. Beautifying Home. It has been said truly that pictures in a house are as necessary as windows; one gives light and life to the body, the other life and light to the soul. Every man, woman and child has some taste for the beautiful in Nature and in art, and this taste has only to be cultivated to become a source of happiness as lasting as it is pure. Yet, there are houses all over our land in which not a picture is to be seen, not a poem read nor a song sung, throughout the year. Should peo ple wonder why the children are unrefined? Brighten your homes with these ministers of pleasure, these dumb teachers that speak so elo quently, these swift—winged messengers of thought and fancy, that never grow’ old and weary us. Easy Lesson in Physiology. Supposing your age to be 15 or there-about. You have 160 bones and 500 muscles; your blood weighs 25 pounds, and your heart is 5 inches in length and 3 inches in diameter, it beats TO times per minute, 4,200 times per hour, 100,800 times per day, and 36,772,200 times per year. At each beat a little over 2 ounces of blood is thrown out of it: and each day it receives and discharges about 7 tons of that wonderful fluid. Your lungs will contain a gallon of air. and you inhale 24,000 gal lons per day. The aggregate surface of the cells of your lungs, supposing them to bespread out, exceeds '29,000 square inches. The weight of your brain is 3 pounds; when you are a man it will weigh about 8 ounces more. Your skin is com- , posed of three layers, and varies from } to i of an inch in thickness. The area of your skin is about 1,700 square inches. Each square inch contains 3,500 sweating tubes or perspiratory pores, each of which may be likened to a little draintile } of an inch long, making an aggregate length on the eutire surface of your body of 201,166 feet, ora tile ditch for draining the body almost 40 miles long . When we know that the opinions of even the greatest multitude are the standard of rectitude, I shall feel obliged to make those opinions the mas ter of my conscience. But if it may be doubted whether Omnipotence itself i3 competent to alter the essential constitution of right and wrong, sure I am that such things as they and I are possessed of no such power.—Burke. fit, INSTINCT PRINT