Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

lost hope, all these drove away sleep, and main- the fiery, scathing resentment he feels, for he is in out-of-the-way places, and then punishing ! Eva—so take him if you can get him. I believe walked back to the room where the girl was still taiDed single watchers in that big vast London, only biding his time, and tfill strike when you them if they keep it, making thieves of those in marrying for money, What sense is there in sitting in the fast thickening twilight. One solitary watcher sat at his open window in least expect it. from covert or ambuscade, and j who, untempted, had remained honest She eating brown bread, when there are white wheat- j “ My daughter ” she cried, as she sank down Dover street, Piccadilly. Professor Holmann, do you mortal hurt. wi.l have one friend who will pray that she may I en 1< arts in :Le world All ask is, to be invited beside het^: “ it is as I teared— he has come for ♦ V, .1 oiA^inn 11 y >U. without his spectacles, was turning his gaze into the still sky, and sending his soul’s look into the forlorn Chelsea street, to watch over that wretched human being, once the adored beauty of Berlin society. (TO BE CONTINUED.) For me, mamma? for me?” the girl cried in consternation, her blue eyes ablaze with excite ment. *• What business has he with me pray ?” “Come aDd see" replied the woman wearily. “ Follow me !” Eva obeyed mechanically. “ Child behold your father,” Hannah said as she placed the giris small white hand iD theCol- Phmsie leaves the room. Outside she turns be led away from temptation, and preserve her and shakes her fist and mutters: innocence; and it seems to me that you, a pro- “I would have been your friend; you prefer- 1 fessing Christian, should be less harsh in your red my enmity. I will pay you royally for this condemnation, and more charitable. I think day's work, Miss Hill!” : the Humanitarian stands a better chance of en- To her mistress she relates her rencounter, tering heaven than the Christian who has not with many exaggerations and much embellish- charity.” f\TTm ATP |T|TTTn TVrTDTj 1 menf ; and < unscrupulous to an extreme, she The Lady Star and Sir Roger are now be- UU 1 UJ! lUJJj ilLlXbJll. st 11 further irritates her by informing her that frothed, and the marriage will be consummated | Daisy had laughed at and gloried in her inso- ! early in Spring. S r Roger has watched eagerly „ . ! lence. for every chapter of Daisy's serial, and a per- recall, and Miss Strong may have been among onel’s vigorous grasp, and standing there the “Write poetry, indeed !” said Lady Mar; “our : sonal antipathy is the result. She is bold, daring the number. Who knows?” ! wonder stricken foundling learned for the first country is on the verge of ruin, unless she ! original ai d is-a stranger to the organ phrenol- | Just then the ponderous Seminary bell gave time, the history of her birth and parentage, breaks up this democracy.” ! ogists call reverence. °In her presumption she out its loud clang in the belfry, and the girls She had never dreamod before, that Hannah was “I'll get even with her!” Phrasie mutters, j is magnificent. What is popular she instantly ! hurried in doors without exchanging another j not her mother, and that the man sleeping so eyeing her mistress furtively. j dissects and rejects, and these idiosyncrasies j word. ; quietly under the sods at Wash Hollow, was not “I wish you would,” returns the lady ; “noth- j have given her serial an interest that holds him j That evening, Eva related this interview to ! her father, ing is too severe for her, in my et timation.” j enchained while he endorses it not. Instead of j her mother. A thrill of fear shot though Mrs. i “ And Duflie ” she murmured, “ Duflie is not j That is carte blanche with a vengeance, and \ joining in the hue and cry of the people, she | Church’s breast, as she listened. She had always ! my brother, mamma. ’ she cried, “no one shall Phrasie devises—and not for the first time in J turns off with disdainful face and assists the j dreaded, lest oine one, even after all these years, claim me. I am yours and Duflie is my brother to the wedding. You will be disappointed in that,” replied Eva with a touch of grave dignity in her manner. “I shall never wed December. I don't know what he wants of mamma. He probably will explain himself. Perhaps he thinks she knows, Miss Strong.” “ We told him there was no such pupil here.” “Very true, but mamma has taught many young Indies—many whose names I cannot now A PEARL. BY MRS. AMELIA V. Pl’RDY, Author of “First Fruit.” CHAPTER VIIL Daisy sought her room and opened her desk, her wretched life- a revenge commensurate with hunted to escape, not because she sympathizes might arise to claim her darling. That apprehen- i —my dear noble brother. I know no relatives, resolute to rise superior to forebodings that op- the magnitude of the offence. / with sin, but because she must succor that ' >ion haunted her now, and induced her to throw beside: no man, though he came in a chariot of pressed her. Hesitating between two words, and , They meet again on the steps, and Phrasie which the terrier element, which abounds in desirous to discard hackneyed expressions, a ' says sweetly— ' man, hunts down and destroys. It is safer to knock at the door brought her out of the realm [ “My Lady has made other arrangements for be commonplace. He achieves success only of imagination to literal fact. “ /1 - - — ” - 1 -- 1 *" n — — 1 — u —_• -• ’ - ■ said ungraciously, half-exp blowsy lace in the entrance. drily dressed in flounced in massive gilt jewelry, stood on the threshold, smilingly, with pale-blue eyes, swarthy, slim, and an unmistakable odor of falsehood and craft abont her. “ I am Lady Mar’s maid, Phrasie,” she ex plains. “Iam not English, but I was raised here and speak the language—well enough. I enjoy so much the way yon scattered my Lady’s botte's. She have such a vile temper.” She slides into a seat with a seductive smile, regardless of the haughty eyes that regard her, and drivels on volubly Daisy’s eyes droop, and she resigns herself to the situation, her refined nature in open revolt at her visitor’s pronounced vulgarity. She knows a great deal, this Phrasie, though she is not yet twenty, and is lavish with her knowledge. She unveils her mistress’ pov erty with particular zest, born of lemembrance of the hard life she submits to, because Lady Mar is the only Lady who scorns to inquire into her servant’s antecedents—expecting nothing from them but what is criminal, abject and base, and believing them to be honest, not from principle, but because the sword of justice is suspended over their heads and the hulks are close at hand. She lays bare the skeletons of Lady Mar’s life with grim satisfaction; Reveals her dependence upon Lord Huntly, her cousin, who detests her, but for family reasons keeps her up. “ She has one son,” Phrasie says in conclusion, “ The old wild-cat, and I don’t know how she could have a son like that. He is magnificent, now in the Levant with his yacht. Not like her— like his father, who was noted for his splendid extravagance and died bankrupt. Used to gam ble awfully at Baden-Baden, and Lady Mar had to go into retirement when he died. Her son had not a dollar, but a paltry five hundred, and lived abroad. Some day he would inherit the title and estate of Lord Huntley. He was heir- at-law, but Lord Huntly was but fifty, and hand somer than half the men living, and so fast, such a vile roue ! It was hard for a man like Arthur to wait and be poor till the old reprobate died. Arthur was joost like King Arthur of the Round Table, or Bayard, or George Vashington. ” She comes to a dead stop. It dawns upon her that she is not interesting the high-bred girl be fore her, who is so royally beautiful, and adds: “I like to be sociable. It is Lady Manley’s orders that I share your room. You can stand it, I hope, for a little vile.” > This apologetically; for she sees the red blood mount to the wide, white forehead, and feels that she rebels at the intrusion. Phrasie be thinks herself of her bon-bons, and tenders them to her frozen companion, who as politely declines. She shrugs her shoulders, and a dan gerous gleam is in the crafty eyes. “ Talent is mooch,” she declares decisively, “ but it is your politic man that goes up before him. If I had my choice between tact and tal ent, I would say I will take tact—it is the mother of success.” “ What especial advantage could accrue in this instance were I to use policy ?” Daisy asks, eyeing her visitor with quiet amusement. “Certainement, nothing,” she replies, “only it is better to be on pleasant terms with one you are forced to have for room-mate.” Daisy puts paper and pencil down and smil ingly accepts the philosophy as founded in rea son, and Phrasie is mollified. “If I had your looks, mon Dieu! it is a Duke I would marry before a year. What a fool your Nell Gwynne was, and your Jane Shore. Ma dame de Maintenon had more sense. They would have married the King, only they were weak. ” A scarlet spot burns in her dark cheek. “If nature had done anything for me, I would be in the Tuileries to-day; and I have seen the beautiful who had no sense let themselves down, down, till they were no more than the snow the greasy water of the kitchen is thrown upon. Ah, the fools, fools ! how my heart aches for them !” “I have no sympathy to waste upon them and the world treats women transgressors aright. Women are not irresponsible, irrational crea tures, and every woman who falls, falls with the enormity of the offense before her and its just consequences.” “ Bah !” the French girl retorts, “you are a great baby. I dare say you have not one lover yet, and have seen nothing more of the world than the little town yonder; and London, in the gay season, is joost a big house—the West End. What do you know ? There could be no—what you call palliating circumstances,” she demands, her eyes glittering like a basilisk’s. “All are not as strong-minded as Mees Hill.” She feels that she is being looked down upon by one who dwells on the white heights, and grows sarcas tic. “ I had a sister; she was beautiful, and she turned up one day in the Mo gue. I suppose “I deserved worse than that,” and Phrasie passes on smilingly. Just now Daisy is combatting a wild desire to escape from the castle. With every hour, the impression deepens and broadens that in flight alone there is safety. The little town is but a mile distant, ani board could be ob tained there, provided always that Jane did not interpose her maternal authority and prevent it. The temptation is strong, but she fights it down. It would be giving to superstition a weight and importance against which practical common . , P u y missiles of the might which makes right. There is nothing about her writings to indicate that she is a womanly woman—nothing that a man might not have written; the pearl-petaled deli cacy of gentle womanhood is lacking. She re calls Charlotte Bronte, who was always strong and often coarse; but, after all, he was com pelled to admit that “Chained” was the work of genius, and that there was a rugged originality about hi r that was picturesque and refreshing; but he sighed that fate had not thrown across his friend’s pathway a union of less mind and sense revolts. To believe in dreams and augu- j more sweetness, for happiness from a union of ries is weak, and yet we know people who are I such incongruous elements could not be safely A 1 ‘ ' ' prophesied. The Lady Star was more explicit in her sus picions, but she did not give them credence. strong as steel, and whose veracity cannot be questioned, who believe in both, and accept their revelations, auguries, prophecies, with serene faith, because, in their own individual experience, they have again and again been verified. There are people whose intuitive per ceptions are almost supernatural, whose instinct ive knowledge is almost infallible—who, meeting Mr. A. or B., recoil from them, though outward ly A. and B. represent all the cardinal virtues; and if these rarely gifted possessors of more than mortal ken trust you, you will be told that Mr. A. is a whited sepulchre, a fraud; and if you do not accept their estimate, you will, in nine cases out of ten, sorely regret it. “I never turned a deaf ear to my guardian angel that I did not regret it,” said a lady once in our hearing, and it would be our advice to every one thus warned to consider Limstlf a child of God, and to heed the warning, and thus escape the innumerable pitfalls which we of grosser sight cannot discern. It would be silly, indeed, to notice most of the dreams that are dreamed—the inevitable result of dyspepsia and late suppers; still, there are dreams that partake of the character of visions, which it is well to heed, let the world deride as it will. Said a gentleman singularly deficient in su perstition: “My family and myself were pre paring to spend a few weeks in New Orleans. The night before we were to embark, I dreamed that the boat struck a snag and sank, and that I swam ashore through ice-cold water. The dream made such a vivid impression that I sent my family by rail, unwilling to accept the risk for them, but curiously anxious to try the ex periment myself. A little below Vicksburg the boat struck a snag and sank, and I really expe rienced the frosty bath of my dream.” There are few human beings who have not had, some time in their life, dreams verified —dreams that foretold occurrences which can only be explained as divine revelations. Once upon a time, there lived in a Southern city a family consisting of father, mother, three sons and a daughter. The son, a mere lad, had gone to Virginia soon after the first Manassas. He was the idol of his mother’s heart, and when letters did not arrive weekly, she mourned for him as dead. For weeks no letter had come, but news of glorious triumphs and ghastly lists of the dead and wounded. The mother grieved incessantly, woke up in the night to pray, and cried sometimes all day long. One night the “sole daughter of the house,” a girl of peculiar mind ml gifted, dreamed that she was in the hospital in the city of Richmond. Among the sick and the wounded she threaded her way on and on, till she stopped before^a cot bedstead on which her brother lay, with one foot resting and bandaged upon a chair by the bedside. “Are you wounded?” she asked, and the reply was, “Only a spell of inflammatory rheumatism. I am not much sick.” She narrated the dream at breakfast. Three days later a letter came headed “Robertson Hospital, Richmond, Va.” When her father read this, he stopped and gazed at the young girl, who laughed. Later on, when he read that his son was recovering from an at tack of inflammatory rheumatism, he turned to her and said, “Child, you are undoubtedly a witch.” Who can explain these things other than as supernatural gifts ? Stratton has been making up a choice pack age for Daisy. The indigo satin and velvet cloak and a slate-colored silk with yards of real thread lace, and odds and ends of ribbons, and the whole is tied up in a handsome box, with the picture of Venus de Medici upon it, and she is impatiently waiting for the time to come when she can give it as a parting gift, and Daisy will be out of the reach of her master’s malign influence. The housekeeper, whom she had ridiculed for her weakness in regard to the dead curate, Mrs. Harris, did not wholly symyathize with Stratton in her delight at Daisy’s advance ment. She clung fast to the Mosaic idea of the duty of the child to the parent, and considered Daisy’s unfilial conduct most reprehensible. No matter what the parents may be, it is the child’s duty to love, honor and reverence them The more honorable and upright man or woman is, the less ready are they to believe that friend or acquaintance will stoop to infamy. The Lady Star was not, prone to harsh judgments, but he felt assured that she was unjust in this, because it involved so much degradation of soul. Strong personal antipathy and a remarkable resem blance was no proof whatever. One should have incontrovertible proof before it is time for denunciation, and even circumstantial evidence goes for nothing with the upright judge. In all cases, give the accused the benefit of the doubt. Because a man has done much evil, it is no rea son that he will either steal or murder. So he reasoned and pleaded with his fair fiancee, but she remained unconvinced, and resented his lukewarm feeliDg towards her protegee, who was so gifted and beautiful, and who was, at no late day, to electrify all Christendom, even to re mote Alpine hamlets, with the music of her sil ver tongue. (TO BE CONTINUED.) THE MYSTERIOUS WOMAN. By Mrs. C. VV. BARBER TOWLES. you would say she deserved her fate.” It is not clear to her how any disobedient child “ I pass judgment on no one. I do not know could prosper. She had, on one or two oeca- the circumstances nor her degree of accounts- sions, lectured Daisy upon the wickedness of bility, nor her temptations,” Daisy answers, in- her course, and Daisy had treated the advice expressibly bored. contemptuously. She had found scattered “You are so droll," Phrasie returns, with a j through the Bible innumerable commands to laugh, and saunters to the table and lifts the the child and few to the parent, and she thought paper, and her eyes dilate. “She is von poet, j it quite right that Jepthah should have sacri- wwitinrr moin* nifin /) iom f ’ on * cV» a rrnc.<a nff donnlitnn T.-in n nmn u: j ficed his daughter. Jane was vicious, hideous, and a drunkard, but she was her mother. Bill this writing maid; mon Dieu.'" and she goes off into a paroxysm of laughter. “Von Byron, von Tennyson.” She puts the paper behind her back and announces her determination to “read was her father. She owed them love, affection it to my Lady.” and respect Failing to accord this, there was Daisy requests her politely to place the paper i all the Bible promises that she would not pros- where she found it. There is an ominous spar- I per, nor would her days be long, kle in her eyes that forebodes mischief to the 1 “Mrs. Harris,” says Stratton,°a Seventeen years had passed, since Evans Church found the dead woman by the wayside. There came a mowing in June, when it seem ed a luxury to live. The air was rich with the perfume of flowers and mosses, and birds were tuneful in the Seminary grove. A aroup of rosy cheeked girls stood near one of the gates leading into the Seminary grounds, discussing the material and make of the dresses, in which they were to appear at a coming examination. They were so absorbed in this interesting topic, they did not at first notice a silvery headed gentlman, elegantly dressed in a suit of black, seated in an open buggy, and slowly riding up the slight eminence towards the spot where they had paused, But the beauty of his horse—the black glitter of his new buggy, and the elegance of his attire, at length arrested their attention. All stopped talking, as the vehicle drew near. ‘ ‘ Who is that ?” whispered one of the girls. ‘‘ I don’t believe I ever saw a nicer looking old gen tleman.” The traveller by this time had nearly reached the group. He evedently had no intention of stopping or accosting them, but as his eye fell upon the fair face of Eva Church, something like surprise and emotion was perceptible in his face. Our young friend, as she stood under the wide spreading branches of an elm tree, with her wide brimmed straw hat dangling by one ribbon string from her hand, did indeed form a striking and beautiful figure in the group. One of her schoolmates had twined a garland of wild flowers over her sunny curls. The blossoms were not sweeter in blush than the cheek be neath them—a cheek on which seemed mingled the lily and the rose. Her light muslin dress was neatly fitted to her fine form, even her soft blue eyes, were fine and large ; such as we see in beautiful pictures. The stranger suddenly drew a tight rt in, making his spirited horse rear and plunge a i tie. He touched his hat right gallantly, and said, “ Pardon me young ladies ! this beautiful white building among the trees, I suppose is the Vil lage Seminary. Who is the Principal?” “Professor Vanhose ” modestly answered one of the class, but his question evidently had been addressed to Eva, for his eyes had never wander ed from her face. “ How many pupils are in attendance?” “ One hundred and twenty-three” “ Is there a young lady here by the name of Strong?” “ No Sir.” “Are you quite sure?” “ Quite sure.” “ Pardon me Miss, but may I be bold enough to inquire your name. The young lady I am in search of bears, I imagine, a striking resemb- lence to; ou.” “Church, Sir, Eva Church.” “And your parents are residents of this village ?” “My father is dead, Sir—my mother teaches music in this Institution. ” “1 cannot be mistaken,” he murmured as if her arms around the girl’s neck, and draw her heai^ to her breast. Holding her there, she im. printed a kiss upon her forehead, and smoothed tenderly the sunny curls. A tear, or two stole dowD and dropped upon the girl’s cheek. “Why do you weep, mamma? Do you know the stranger? What of Miss Strong? Did you ever teach her?” “ I do not know, my daughter. I am strange ly sad and nervous to night. Perhaps I have overworked may self. I was dreading lest some thing might arise, to tear as apart. You have become a portion of my being, Eva. I could not give you up to any one,” “Why mamma, what do you mean ? Jane Cross said some hing in a light rallery. about Decem ber and May. You are not afraid this old man has fallen in love with me, and is coming Eastern monarch like, to demand my hand in marriage ? my mother is too sensible for that.” “Ido not know, my daughter, who the strang er is, or what I dread. I only feel, that my hold on you is somehow very insecure. In a noment you may slide from my touch.” “ God forbid ! Never mamma, never with my consent,” said the girl returning the woman's caress. “Where thou dwellest I will dwell—thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” “There’s a gentleman in the parler mum. He gim me this little piece of pasteboard, with his name scribbled on it. and he told me he wanted fo see you,” said a servant, at that momont enter ing the door. “ He looks like a rale gentleman, mum—none of your make believe sort. He gold, and offered me untoled treasures in gems, should carry me away from you my precious mamma,” and she fell upon the bosom that had warmed and comforted her infancy. The old gentleman was deeply moved “Rise child,” he said, “I shall never take you from the only mother you have known, or j from this youth you claim as your brother. May J God bless them for their kindness to yon, my own lost darling !” “Bless you for the assurance, dear father” she said rising and going towards him. “ Yes I < can call you father. He who was buried out of ! our sight, was our dear ‘ papa ’—you are not ‘ papa’ but, father.” The Colonel smiled, as his daughter touched j his forehead with her lips, while uttering these words. “It is very satisfactory,” he said—“own me as your father, and the excellent man who res cued you from death may be still remembered as your beloved parent.” There was no visitor more interested in dhe examination of the Seminary pupils, than eJr’s father. The girls glanced at him with curious eyes, because, as they expressed it, he was such a nice gentleman, and such a dignified peson- age. He had now taken permament lodging in the neighborhood, and came daily to caress and pet his child. Duffle too had returned from college—a tall handsome young man—one, who had easily borne off the first honors of the institution, where he had graduated. One year afterwards, there was a quiet wed- wears a gold watch and kid gloves; and ais black I ding in the old Seminary Hall, The bell rang hat shires like silk - ” j right merrily, for Mrs. Church, the bride—w: “Very well, Sylvia. I will see him soon.” I widely known, and universally respected. Th She arose and bathed her face, and smoothed stately bridegroom was Col. Strong. Eva and the braids of her yet fair hair. Then she looked j Duflie stood side by side, and listened to the was quarrelsomeand filthy in his habits, but he j to himself : “the same hair—the same eyes—the same expression of the mouth. It is her old living self. Nature does not make the same in after having ex- closely in the glass, to see if any traces of her I recent emotion remained, and apparantly satis fied upon this point, turned and left the room, j As she entered the parler, the tall venerable j man arose to meet her There was a grave smile j upon his dips, as he introduced himself, and a- pologized for the freedom he had taken. “ In order Mrs. Church, that you may under stand why I am thus intruding, it will be neesa- ry for me to go back and open for your perusal, a sad chapter in the book of my life. My name is Strong. I live in Alabama ; indeed I am a native of the State. In 18-1 married a beautiful Virginia heiress, and for three years, my life wound through paths filled with sun shine. A babe was born unto us, but alas! before its birth, the light of love and reason had died out of the eyes of my wife. She was a maniac. At first she was quiet in her insanity, but eventually it became a more violent type. It was evident she must be carried to an asylum and treated by skill ful physicians fo rher malady. I thought perhaps the air of her native State would prove beneficial, and accompanied her thither. At first her babe was removed from her, but she grieved so incess antly for it, I hired a carful woman to take care of it and boarded both, where the mother might often see and caress her babe. But this did not satisfy her. With the shrew- ed cunning of lunacy, she managed to efcide the vigilance of her keepers, and stole her child while the nurse slept. She disappeared. No one knew whither she had fled. Weeks went by. The most rigid seach failed to reveal her where abouts. Large rewards were offered for any tidings concerning her, but in vain. The weather was intensely cold, and many supposed both mother and child must have perishd among the mountains. Such alas ! may have been her fate, for a mys tery, dark and soul-rending still hangs over her and my child. Weeks and months went by, but I did not give up the search. Yet, at last there was not the shadow of a clew to follow. What was I to do—what but to return to my Ala bama home, a sad—may I say, a heart broken man. I have lived in the seclusion of my plan tations ever since, Sorrow, grief, doubt, whit ened my locks and made me prematurely gray. My health became impared, and my physicians recommended the waters of the Virginia White Sulpher Springs. Four days ago, I entered the state for the first time in sixteen years. Passing your Seminary, my attention was arrested by a group of school girls. I was driving past them when suddenly there appeared before me a vision of my wife, as she looked in her earliest girl hood. There was the same graceful willowy form—the same blue eyes, and golden hair. Even the expresion about the mouth and lips would have cheated me into a belief that all the dark years had been rolled back, or blotted from my life, and that Cora Mason—the girl wfio afterwards became my wife—stood before me. I spoke to her. The tones in which she answer ed were those of my wife, and they stirred my soul to its lowest depths. That girl I under stand answers to the name of Eva Church; is she indeed your daughter?” “Only by adoption,” answered Mrs Church, and she related in a voice full of emotion, the incidents narrated at the beginning of this tale. “ In what year was this wayside corpse found?” asked Col. Strong in a husky voice. “In the autumn of 1836” answerod Mrs. Church. The old gentleman's agitation visibly increased. “Have you any article of clothing found on the persons of either mother or child ?” asked Col. Strong. Mrs. Church arose and left the room, but soon retu aed bringii g the li tie soiled i ni wt rn gar ments in which the waif had been clothed. The old gentleman glanced at them dubious ly. One suit of baby clothes looked to him very much like another, and he could not realize that any one dear to him had worn such cast off rags. The nurse from whom the child was stolen, brief ceremony, with tearful eyes, but their con- gratulations were sincere and heartfelt, as they y ui ei wards came up to salute tl e happy coupple] Col. Strong left the village immediately after his marriag.e accompanied by his wife, and daughter, and Duflie. The three first traveled in a close carriage, while Duflie pranced along on horse back. “ Where are they going?” asked several, bui no one knew. Three days afterwards this car-, riage, wound over the rough hills, and throug!?* the narrow paths leading to Elijah Haskins farm house. There was the same strip of woods to be passed through—the same stream traveled among the rocks, but in lieu of banks of dried autumn leaves, there were flowers and green mosses, beneath their horses feet. As they approached the little farm house, no flaxen headed children run across the yard or gazed at them with round eyed curiosity. The stubble field was green with corn, rustling in the cooling summer breeze. The blind old grandmother’s knitting needles rusted on the mantle piece, for the fingers which once so skill fully plied them, had lost their cunning, and were stiff beneath the mould, But farmer Haskins still lived, and pointed without hesita tion to the spot, where they had buried, on that cold October day, the dead body, found on the roadside. Duflie’s hands cleared away the weeds that en cumbered the sod, and Eva knelt beside the grave of the mother she had never known. Col. Strong was moved to tears, and his wife looked on in sympathizing sil> nee. A tall white marb e shaft, now marks the lonley spot with the inscription SACKED TO THE MEilOBY OF COEA, BELOVED WIFE OF SOLOMAN STEONG. In a sunny home in Alabama, Col. Strong and Hannah his wife, lived long and happily to gether. Duflie and Eva, found out that there was a nearer, dearer and more sacred relation even than brother and sister. They were married and still live ornaments to society, and bless ings to the world. THE END Gail Hamilton. (Washington Correspondence Toledo Blade.) Miss Dodge’s literary reputation and her brili- ant wit make her a notable feature of Washington society whenever she spends a season here. In figure she is of medium height and rather stout and square; in complexion fair and freckeled, with yellowish brown hair that curls. One eye is slight ly “out of line,” just enough to give a piquant archness to the fusilades of her ever ready tongue. She is a little haughty to strangers, and she dress es very richly and somewhat peculiarly, though in a style that becomes her well. Winter before last, her last season here, she frequently wore a magnificent ivory white brocade silk, made with very long and flowing Turkish sleeves, reaching almost to the bottom of her overskirt; the sleeves, basque and overskirt trimmed with fringe of mar velous richness. In years she must be from forty- four to forty-seven. It is said that in her early girlhood, in Connecticut, she was poor and plain in her appearance, utterly indifferent to the at traction of dress; it never seemed to disturb her if her front breadth was ever so much longer than the breadths behind - At school she was a “ harum- scarum,” easily learning her lessons, and spend ing the rest of her time in tricks, one of her favor ite ones being to go out on the play-ground and challenge the girls to balance themselves on the back fence “ like a hen,” a feat which she could perform longer and with more dexterity than any of her mates. She was liked among them all, while always counted “ odd,” “ and she never seemed to • type, unless they are knit together by nerve, and muscle, and vein. Can I see your mother, Miss?” .. . . - . o — . “She is giving lessons, now, Sir, but—but tantalizing girl unless she complies.. Phrasie hausted all her eloquence in trying to convince perhaps she will recieve you.” » ,, . . pays no attention, and resumes her criticism. her friend that tne worship of the parent has “ I will not interrupt her if that is the case, he he said “has been dead several years. Were she care “ ucn . Ior D * au f ’ , aaaa my informant, one of “It is not Dukes; it is to be a big poet and lasted long enough, and the child should have j said, “ but as I shall remain sometime at a hotel alive she could solve all doubts about these tne ol “ er 8 irls aimaea to. bhe has a home of her thrill the world, and to have new hats and towns his place, and the appalling responsibility of pa- ! in this village, I will solicit an interview at an clothes—I really do not know whither they were ln “ er “ atl J e town, won by the industry of and glaciers named for her; that is Mees Hill's , rentage should be made clear to the people, so i early day. Church?—that is the name, I believe worn by my baby or not.” _ er P®“’. and the . re she spends her summers, ambition. The first line is magnifique I lose that it might not be entered lightly upon; so —I certainly did not misunderstand you?” mv breath ! The second is von big swell idea !” ’ thatit might be regarded as the holiest of trusts. «•" ~ ‘ “ — my breath ! The second is von big swell idea !”! that it might be regarded as the holies't of trusts, ! “Mrs. Hannah Church, Sir—the'widow of Daisy draws near. Phrasie closes her hands | the gift of an immortal soul, a trust every man j Evans Church.” tightly on the poem; but the little brown hand and woman must account for to God Himself, | The stranger bowed, and rode on, The girls is opened hastily with a cry of pain, the massive . and woe be to him who cannot restore the jewel i stood in mute amazement. rings have bruised her slight fingers, for Daisy’s , to the Owner with the radiance it had fresh from j “ What did he say ?” cried Madge Baker. “Who touch was the reverse of gentle. She things His august hands, “I think that we should not was he talking about? Who was knit bv nerves her hurt hand in dead silence. say, ‘lead us not into temptation,’ but ‘lead us | and sinews? I declare I believe the old man is “I am sorry I hurt you,” Daisy says quietly; aicay from temptation.’ I do not believe that \ crazy.” “but you should not have resisted.” the good God ever leads us into temptation to , “No, he has fallen in love with Eva,” cried “Beware the fury of a patient man,” says the J try our strength, to make us the grander if we Jane Cross. “We have all heard about Dec- i proverb; bat a still more dangerous man is he pass the ordeal unscathed. Think of the em- j ember wedding May, and it is to be enacted Jwho, when hurt, beats back with Herculean will > ployerwho tempts his servants by hiding money j again in our midst.’ He looks like he is rich, uru uy my uauy or not. * . ■, ' —7 f , —, — Mrs. Church drew from a pocket in her dress , lh ere 13 the mos. devoted attachment betwen her- _ * .1 A T m U In! « n A* . n 1 ■ Cl 1. _ .1 1 at the jewels, worn by the mysterious woman, They were wrapped in the same bit of white paper which Mrs. Haskins had placed them in, at first As the solitaires and ring met the eye of the man, he uttered a cry and reached out his hand. Y know these," he said. “They were my self and Mr. Blaine's family. She pets the chil dren like an “ own born aunt,” and one of them, Maggie, a thirteen-year-old, manifests much resem blance to her in the brightness of her mental traits. It is not possible to be regarded with tenderness but by few. The merit which gives greatness and bridal gift to my wife,” and taking the ring, he 1 renown diffuses its influences to a wide compass, touched a secret spring and revealed the inscrip- j but acts weakly on every single breast; it is placed tion, “to c. ii. FP.01I s.s.” at a distance from common spectators, and shines All doubts were dispelled - Col. Strong was 1 like one of the remote stars, of which the li^ht Eva's father. Mrs. Churcu tottered rather than j reaches us, but not the heat. = •.■..-flaMc.r INSTINCT PRINT t