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WILD WORK. A PHASE OF MODERN CIVILIZATION. Based on Startling Incidents which have Transpired in the RED RIYER Region of Louisiana, since the War. 33. CHAPTER HI. ‘ Captain Witehell,’ she said, her hand held oat, her eyes fall of eager light. He bowed and took her hand, bnt his look was still puzzled and unrecognizing. "* I know you now. Remember we only met once. I hope you have had no ill fortune since that night’ •When I was so sorely beset and you saved me? No; my enemies have not found me out They really thought me drowned. Thanks to you. I have not forgotten you. I have thought of you daily, hourly. But for you I might now be in the cell of a mad-house, or in my grave, more likely; for that man—my guardian—has no conscience.’ A curious look passed over Capt. Witchell’s face. Floyd’s quick eye caught the incredulous, half-sneering expression, and her hopes sank. The Texans had told him, then, she thought, and he believed their story and not hers. 4 1 did you a servioe at no cost to myself,’he said; ‘you owe me no thanks.’ be taken. My God! I hear them coming. They shall not takr me. 1 will drown myself in the river.’ Distractedly she tried to urge the horse down i the bank. ‘Stop,’ he cried springing to the ground. ‘You ' shall ride my horse He knows the ford, and ; ! will take you over safe. Now go at once.’ He had put her in the saddle while he was j ■peaking. ‘Off with you, Zep.’he cried to the horse. The tall, strong animal took the water with long strides, while the mare stooping her head drank as if famished with thirst. As Capt. Witch ell ran back up the bank, the sound of approaching horses reached his ear. Far down the lane lead ing up from the woods he saw four men coming at a slack gallop as if their horses were badly , blown. A glance across the river showed him | the woman safely landed on the opposite bank, ; and making for the covert of the woods. In the same glance he saw, to his surprise, that the tried to speak, it died on her lips. He was i mare had followed her mistress, and was nearly silent, and she went on hurriedly, dropping j half way across. Already the water was running her eves under his searching look. j over her back. ‘You don’t know what I am or anything of j ’She will have to swim, and the current will w hm uauu, uu» m«i» " — '■— i m y past - that matters little. It is unfair to I be too strong for her, he thought. id unrecognizing. judge any human being by their past. As to The next moment the meu had caught sight of ‘You do not know me. You have forgotten j '^at I am I will prove that. Try me.’ him, and riding up, the foremost asked: me.’ Her voice had a pained thrill, and the J . you make a strange request,’ he said at last. ‘Have you seen a woman on horsebaok pass light died in her eyes. ^ < t j > To be what you ask. would require that you should be near me all the time, and I have no home for yon. And if I had, it would not look right for you to be there.’ ‘Look right? I thought you disregarded looks. I thought you defied these people. ’ ‘ You thought wrongly. I want to conciliate them, and gain their confidence and esteem. I want them to feel that I am one of them; that I have their interests at heart, as I have.’ ‘ Verv likely,’ she retorted, stung by his cold ness. ‘ All tyrants and extortionists have ex pressed the same exalted sentiments, from Na poleon down—' • To myself. Quite a descending scale. So be it. If you have done, I will say good-by. That old darkey yonder has smoked his pipe j ease. , , .. , out, sitting in the flat waiting for me. I thank j ‘No harm done, muttered another. She s you for the interest you have expressed in my j cheated a rope, thats all. Its a better end tnan r — r -„ — , . - -i welfare, but I think I can manage to steer my she deserved.' for me. If I could only do something to prove : boa t jf „ oes pieces, nobody will j ‘ Why ? asked >\ itchell. mv gratitude. If I were a man I would give you j gn ff er bnt me s ° tay> here j g something of! ‘Why? Because she’s been the death of as ny life-service; I would follow your fortunes, fg j ht to re8 tore. I picked this up on j good a man as ever a woman fooled—her own vatch out for the dangers you despise, the eDe- j ^ r: Lilit AllU Wt" U/ICUiUot on&uU . ‘Have yon seen a woman on horsebaok pass this way?’ A thought seized him. ‘Yes,’ he said, and wavAd his hand carelessly towards the river. All eves turned in that di rection. There was the mare struggling gallant ly with the current. i * ‘But there’s nobody on her,’ cried the man. j ‘Nobody ? There was a woman just now. ‘The current swept her off, and she’s drowned i then. There’s nothing to be seen of her.’ The eyes of the group were strained for a j breathless interval upon the river, then the j first speaker looked round on the others. ‘She’s drownded. boys for a fact,’ he said, j ‘There’s an end of her, and he loosened his feet : from the stirrup and seated himself more at mies you are too busy to guard against. You need such a friend.’ • Do you think so?’ * I know it. I know what you aim at. I know what your ambition would compass: and I know the difficulties, the dangers in the way. You have a strong will, and circumstances give you a power outside your own strength; bnt other circumstances are working against you— growing stronger every day. The people have been crushed, paralyzed, but they are recover ing; opposition is waking up; hatred is growing active; the people are getting furious at seeing the negro used as a tool to keep them down, and at seeing all the money and privileges of the country going into the hands of men that are not of them—men like you. They bold them selves imposed upon; over-taxed, swindled; and they will not endure it long—not here, at least, in this seotion of the country, where law has never pressed hard, and restraints of any kind have been few. Already there have been secret meetings —’ •At which you were the ohief-spokesman ? Witehell asked, with quiet sarcasm. ‘Judging from the speech you have just made, you might have been the leading spirit—the exponent of the people’s rights.’ ‘ No, I have no leaning that way. I am not that evening. I forgot to speak of it in our hur ried interview afterward. Indeed, I was not sure it was yours. I had not looked at it /iici. If he had been in doubt as to whether the let ter was hers, he could be so no longer. A sight of her face was enough. It turned ghastly white in an instant. She stretched out her hand mechanically for the bit of crumpled paper; her fingers closed convulsively over it. ‘ You said you had not read it Uim,' she gasp ed. * You did read it afterwards ?’ ‘ I did, but no one else saw it; no one else knows or shall know from me. Good morn- ing.’ • One moment!’ she cried, in a stifled voied! ‘ Let me explain; let me ’ ‘No,’ was the cold answer, accompanied by an impatient wave of the hand. * No explana tion from you is needed. I have lost too muoh time already.’ He tightened the reigns he had been holding. ‘ Come Zep,’ he said to his horse, that had been chafing the bit and pawing the ground for the last five minutes. The woman made a quick step towards him, a malignant, snaky gleam springing into her eyes. * You prefer to believe the lies against me, she cried. ‘I understand new why you re sold do as you are doing ii j. uau : von w ju y onr mi«tak«- You to«.*. ‘ 0 "Tn bfouW makr the rrost of znj ©pp^rtmisiitw [injure yon; you will 6nd that my band shall ke all I could get—knowing that money ; ^ a storm that 8 hall sweep you from this •ings power. I have spoken of the opposition ) countr y or into your grave.’ ;ainst you because I don’t think you teal it this is woman’s gratitude,’ he ejaculated, Dough; you don’t see the difficulties you must ieet. Yon think you have everything in your wn hands; your mind is full of your own ohemes; you do not see wh it pit-falls are being ug in vonr path. You think too little of per- onal danger. For instance, you are going to ravel alone to-day, and there is a party of men jllowing you to do you harm.’ ‘Harm! what! that handful of harem-scarem ,oys, who don’t know what they want? I have io fear they will do anything—not the least, s it only to tell about them you have stopped ae?’ ‘No, there may be nothing to fear from them, b you say, but such demonstrations are fore- unners of something more serious. They be- oken the opposition that is gathering—that may iut short your career before you get the fortune md the power you aim at. You have need to >e watchful, and to have devoted friends; and rou stand alone.’ • You mistake—I have friends. ‘You have a few men you have yourself put in iffice and made them all they are. They will ook out for themselves—serve themselves, and zott-perhaps—as long as they can make it pay veil; no longer. Larger pay on the other side would make them desert and betray you- You leed one about you devoted to your interests, Heart and soul, capable of sympathizing in pour plans, of encouraging, of inspiring them; >f being watchful and argus-eyed in your be half looking out for possible small dangers, ind’plots and treacheries, while you are busy prith your schemes.’ He looked at her with keen, curious inquiry. She was beautiful, with that heightened color, that lifted eye, standing under the old oak tree with the shadows and sifted sunbeams quiver ing over her. The audacity of the venture she was making gave her an eager, vivid grace. ‘It is hardly possible to find a man so devo ted,’ he answered, at last •But a woman! Only a woman can be so, truly, unselfishly devoted to a man, can so watch over his interests, enter into his plans, scent danger with woman’s keen instinct, and help guard against it with woman a tact and Where will you find such a woman ?’ he ask ed, curiosity conquering his impatience to be ^I*could be such a one—to you!’ she said, onfriv earnestly. Her voioe faltered, blushes dye/her face, for womanly shame was not dead in her and the band she laid on his arm, the look she raised to him, was in deprecation as W He! R to a o P , P “ddened with embarrassment and Burnrise perhaps with passing gratification, for ZXSZ waa be.ati(al aud her worda „d look, wore foil of intoiioatioB ^ittory. ‘ What can you mean ? he half stammered. “That I am as ambitions as you are-thatl too have a genius for ruling me “ fortune with bold measures,-only unfortu nately, I am a woman. I can act on y 8 some man. I understand y°° r _ a “ ,’Jin vour ciate your powers; I see the difficu way; I could help you if I might; I would dj vote myself to that purpose, I would b y ear and hand to you.’ . , . Her earnestness confused him. He put her offer in the light of a jest. , . ‘The days of page and squire are over, he said. ‘You don’t mean to make me out a knight, and put on male clothes and ride y my Bide as my armor-bearer ?’ •That would be infinitely better than drag ging out the days in woman’s drudgery sew- ing seams, teaching brats to spell, she 88,(1 bitterly. ‘ No, I don’t care for the male clothes. I would not need to lay aside my woman s dress and nature to be all I have said to you—devoted [friend, helper ;’ if »ci/e was the word she IUUJ V* iunw JVM* # . , So this is woman’s gratitude,’ he ejaculated, turning round with a coolly sardonic smile, as he walked away leading his horse. But a strange uneasy feeling (prophetic, though he knew it not ) shivered through him, as he caught the baleful look in her eyes—the look full of the rage and hate of a woman, who finds she is known at her worst. Who feels she has humbled herself uselessly, that her game has been seen through and despised, as more contemptible even than it was, for there might have been some real earnestness and honesty in that offer of devoted service to Capt. Witehell. The woman had a strong thirst for power and a passionate admiration for any who had won it. She had a restless desire to be or do something out of the commonplace, and she was shrewd and daring. Moreover, she had a grateful rememberance of what Capt. Witehell had done for her. He might have found such a woman a valuable ally. He would have hesitated before he turned her into an enemy, had his been a nature to take cognizance of minor causes and influences. But preoccupied with big schemes, he lost sight of smaller policies. He had but little hypocrisy in his nature, and but little softness or flexibility. Having heard her story from the Texans who had pursued her to the river’s brink, and having had the story con firmed by that picked-up letter, and her looks at receiving it, he thought of this beautiful woman as a sort of human leopard. He shook her from him as such, and went on his way, thinking he had done with her forever, lore- seeing not that, with more of the wolf than the leopard’s nature, she would track him with her revenge. It was not only because he had met her overtures with scorn that she hated him, but because he Knew her secret—he alone. To all others, the woman, Mabel Waters was dead. ‘ He might not have believed what he heard, had he not seen that note,’ she thought. ‘ Why did I not destroy it ? Because it was poor Morris last words, I must thrust it in my bosom in stead of tearing it to pieces.’ She oruahed it in her hand as she spoke. Then she opened her fingers and looked down at the bit of soiled paper, with the blurred pen cilled lines upon it. Her mood changed, a shadow of remorsefnl agony swept over her face, and she sank down at the foot of the tree, pressed her hand, still holding the crushed let ter, over her face and shook with an inward storm. . . ,. . If Capt Witehell had seen her then, his heart might have softed to her in some slight degree, he might have felt some of that pity that had made him ready to help her that August day eight months ago, when preparing to ford the shrunken river, he had heard the gallop of a horse behind him, and turning saw a woman, wild-eyed and dust-stained, urging towards him a horse covered with foam and panting as if its sides would burst. ‘I am pursued,’ she gasped, ‘men are follow ing me to take me, imprison me, kill me. They are close behind and my horse can go no longer. I am innocent. Help me, hide me for the love of God.’ , . He sent a hurried glance around. All about were broad fields, not a house, not a tree nearer than the swamp that stretched back of the fields —nearly a mile away. Yes, there, just across the river, were the woods—a belt of thick growth —and farther back, the cabin of a negro. ‘Your only chance is to cross the river,’ he said. ‘It is low —can be forded here, but the water is deep in places; you must follow the shallowest. I will go first, it may swim your horse as she’s not tall. Come — But looking down at the panting, trembling mare, he saw this would not do. •She caif never carry you over,’ he said, ‘she will not hold out.’ •Then let me drown, it will be better than to Yes, Waters was a good fellow— ; paid his debts, lived bonest, a splendid shot, j and free-handed as could be—too free-handed | for his own good; it kept him poor. He wasn’t j as young as a wife might like, nor as neat-look ing maybe, but ho just ioved the ground that j woman walked on. He took her up out of the dirt—married her when id: e was a slip of a girl, [ and sent her to school aiijl made a lady of her. | AH went smooth, till jes’ before the war ended, j Then a rich fellow—Morris,his name—was from ■ Louisiana here— refugeed out to our part of the [ country, and Waters give him house-room and pasture, and let him have provisions. When the fight was over, he kept a sayin’ he war goin’ back to his farm on the Bayou Teche or his property in New Orleans, but he kept puttin’ it j off, and bimeby we found out why. He was , waitin’ to take Waters’ wife with him, and they made up to put the husband out of the way. j The overseer was hired to do the job. Morris i got Waters’ to go out huntin’ one day and the i overseer shot him, and he and Morris buried j him. It was found out, and the overseer got j away, and Morris dodged us for three days. We j caught him at last, as ho was sayin’ good-by ; to his lady at night, not far from her house. He j had hung around to see her agin, and it cost him j his life. He danced a jig with no floor under his feet, next mornin’. He made his will before hand, and left her all he khd. Then when he hnn-t'A. - leave t<-> writ? v note and send it by’a wfl!E>ah tnat was cryin and takin’ on over him—he was jes’ the kind o’ chap that women are soft upon. We told him to go ahead, and down he sat on a log with the rope round his neck and writ the note and gave it to the woman, whisperin’ something in her ear. We all thought afterwards that it was Wa ters’ wife he sent it So, and that he wrote her word to get away as fast as she could, as he had heard us swearin’ vengeance on her, for, when his job was done and we went for her, she had gone—run off on Morris’ fast little mare. We give chase, and would er got her ef ithat ther accident hadn’t bappeied.’ ‘It’s well enough asit is,’ said another of the men, laying his leg confortably over the saddle bow and refreshing Hmself with a chew ot to bacco. ‘ I’d hate morally to slip a noose ronnd a woman’s neck, deserin’ of it as she might be.’ ‘ How do you know hat she deserved it? Are you sure she knew ttey were going to murder her husband ?’ asked <apt. Witehell. • Didn't she meet Iorris in the woods after her husband was killd? There was, evidence, too, in plenty to sho' she’d put ’em up to it, though Morris sworeto the last she was inno cent as the babe unbon, and took all the blame on himself. That comts for nothin’. He was so mad over her, he’< done anything to clear her skirts.’ ‘Come boys,’ said aother, ‘the game’s over; let’s get down and char up, and rest our horses a^spell before we turrback.’ They got down, th horses began to crop the grass, the men drew or a ‘ tickler, ’ and * oheered up’ all around, proffeng the cheer to the stran ger, who declining i left them, and crossing the river in a ‘ dug-oi,’ at a point lower down, made his way to the cbin at the ford, being a little apprehensive abut his horse and curious to know what had borne of the woman. He found his horse quiey grazing in the little yard, and in the reaiof the house, hid by a clump of young treesae found the woman he had heard called Mab Waters. She had been feeding the mare whosopeed had saved her life, and wits standing wit an arm about the ani mal’s neck, and her iead dropped upon it. When she looked uphe saw her black eyes were swimming in tea. ‘You are safe,’ he gd. ‘They have gone back. They saw you horse swimming over without a rider, and fought you were drown ed.’ She brought her hamjtogethericonvulsively, her eyes glistened. ‘ That is good! that igood!’ she said, under her breath, and began thank him eagerly for his timely help. Seeg his grave^face, she broke off with a suddequestion. • You Baw them and ©ke to them—they told you—what ?’ He was silent. ‘It does not matter.I do not care to hear what they told you. Itras some lie of course— a trumped-up story toicuse their pursuit of me. They were my g^rdian, his brother and bis sons. They want r money between them. They pretended I was ftd; they locked me up and 1 made my escap I will yet have my rights. In a little wlB, I shall be of age. I will go back, and theyiall suffer punishment for the wrong they haidone me.’ She spoke with suchlear-toned, steady-eyed assurance that he almnbelieved her story. An hour afterward#hen he was pursuing his journey miles awake chanced to put his hands in his pocket,id felt there the fold ed paper he had pickeap from the river bank when he saw the Texa»pproaching. Opening it, he deciphered the Stated, scarcely legible handwriting. It was (Cite Morris had written to Mabel Waters a femoments before he was hung. It implored he» fly the country at once —to ride his Mexican are, and get out of the State. It expressed uifing love, and bade her an impassioned farewi Summer was abroadVer the land—a sum mer unusually hot and humid—unusually rich in leaf, and flower, and fruit, especially was this the case in the swamps and the rich, level linds lying along the river Find bayous.^ Here vegetation ran riot Corn stood in solid dark green phalanxes—the great ears pushing,against each other, the thick stalks matted with convo- loolus and coral berry vines. Cotton, overtop ping the tallest man, interlocked its heavy-boil ed branohes across rows; weeds sprang up thick and rank everywhere, trumpet vines and poison oak embowered every stump and tree, and grass, and wild clover and parsley spread a matted carpet over the ground. Yet the summer that was so kind to the plant world, was nojfriend to man. The atmosphere so stimulating to vegetal forces, held germs and exhalations noxious to human life. The season had been unusually sickly. Fevers had grown gradually more malignant as the summer advanced, until the deadly swamp fever made its appearance, chilling and burning its victims bv turns, and tinging them a saffron, deep as that of the helianthus, whose bloomy mass burned like a flame beside the bayous. Swamp fever, near akin to, and often the prelude of that yellow scourge, so much dreaded along those western water courses, that empty near seaport towns, in which the yellow fever is al ways lurking—a snake ‘scotched but not kill ed’ by frost. This summer, everything along the river was favorable to the propagation of the pestilence— the atmosphere, the human system, deterioted by malaria, were ripe for it, only the seeds were wanting. But not long: in September, a boat, with a yellow fever case on board, stopped at a near landing; the germs escaped, fastened them selves upon their human food, and propagated and spread witl^terrible rapidity. A number of the dwellers upon the river and the fertile swamp fell victims to the scourge, and then the planters and their families made a hurried ex- dus, refngeeing to the hills, carrying a portion of their household effects, and getting into out houses, or stretching tents along the lakes, where the fish and game were abundant. Crops were left to the care of the negro laborers, who seemed to enjoy an immunity from the disease in its fatal form. Of the whites, there remain ed on the river only a few old veterans, who considered themselves fever proof, and enthu siastic young planters, too full of life and youth to fear death, and too eager for big harvests and heavy money returns, to leave their farms at this critical time, when those indigenous rebels —weeds and grass, were fighting for the maste ry over alien king cotton. There was on sickness the Hills at the same time, but not. of the malignant type that raged in the alluvial regions. It was severe enough, however, to occasion no little uneasiness. It broke up, for the time, the prosperous little school in the town of Ylalta, in which Adelle Holman was teacher. Very unexpected to her self and her friends, had Miss Holman oome into this position. The cherished daughter of the well-to-do Mossy Valley planter, had no need to leave her parents and her pretty home, to teach grammer "and rhetoric in a country town. Adelle could hardly have analyzed the motives that induced her to accept the post urged upon her by the Principal, her warm admirer and her father’s old friend. She knew that the unrest, which had lately taken posses sion of her, had something to do with this de sire for change and for absorbing work; as had also an increasing repugnance to the marriage her parents seemed to expect and desire her to make; but the cause of this unrest and of this dislike to a union, she had not before actually opposed, she could not herself understand. She only knew that the old home pleasures and pursuits had grown tame and wearisome—her £41 lciiliif;. hoi 0» w «l eD HinH. h«r ifairv work, he:. - walks and rides through the summer woods, her evening readings aloud to the household, or singing to her father the sweet old fashion ed ballads he loved—all these that had filled up her young life satisfyingly enough before, fail ed to do so now. Lanier found her moods very puzzling, but her increEised reserve, dreamy indifference and sometimes haughty repellance, only served to fan his passion into more eager flame. His farm joined her father’s, and his chestnut stal lion, prancing impatiently under the great oak in front of the Holman gate was an every-day sight. Adelle had grown to dread seeing that slim figure spring from the saddle and come hastily up the avenue, followed by two or three hounds, the swarthy face lighting up as he caught sight of her sitting at her sewing in the shaded piazza, or at the window behind her geraniums with her pet orioles chirping in the swinging cage over her head. She always found some household task that called suddenly for her attention in time to break up the tete-a-tet ■ she hated. But even in these self-imposed tasks he would insist upon helping her, following her about the garden, among the pea rows and raspberry vines, or in the poultry yard among the pigeons and ban tams with the assurance of an accepted suitor. His passionate love-talk exasperated her some times. She could not respond to it, but neither dared she silence it, for she had a^reproving consciousness that she had listened to and tac itly encouraged it in da^s gone by. To her parents everything seemed to go on smoothly. Age is seldom keenly observant. Col. Holman thought this young man—the son of an old war comrade as well as of a friend and neighbor— quite well suited, in spite of a little wildness and a rather fierce temper, to be the husband of his beautiful daughter, with her fine, pure, yet passionate nature. ‘ When are you and Lanier going to make it up, Dell?’ he would ask her sometimes, and her brother, in one of his last visits (he was farm ing to himself this year as an experiment,) took her to task. ‘ Seems to me you are treating Lanier rather coolly, of late,’ said the young fellow. ‘I don’t know much about such matters, but I’m sure I would like my betrothed to be a little more af fectionate.’ ‘I am not his betrothed. You know, Der rick, there never was any positive engagement between us. 4 Wasn’t there ? Well, there was a promise pretty well understood, if not made in form; and I suppose you intend to marry him one day —don’t you ?’ * Never! That is, I think not. I do not be lieve I can.’ ‘Dell, you don’t mean to say you've been flirting with Lanier all this while? Y’ou can’t deny you encouraged him.’ ‘ I am afraid I did—once. I really thought I liked him well enough to . But I know my feelings better now. I seem much older, some how. Like all foolish girls I found it pleasant to be made love to. I was in love with love— not with Lanier. I am very sorry. I don’t kuow what to do about it’ •‘lam sorry, too. I hope you will get over this nonsense, and behave to Lanier as you ought to. He’ll make you a devoted husband, but he's not a fellow to be fooled with, I can tell you—gay and light as he seems.’ Adelle felt sure of that. Lanier had a care less, silent, yet pleasant way about him, bnt she had more than untie caught a flash of tbose small, keen black eyes that told her there was a lurking serpent under that surface-deep bon hommie. Exacting and fierce in his love, she was sure he would be jealous and revengeful, if he iiud grounds to be so. Hitherto he had had none. No other lover had been bold enough to contend against him for the favor of the lovely Mossy Valley belle—this girl whose shy smile and dreamful eyes told of hidden sweetnesses of heart and soul that had never yet been called out. • Don’t scold, Derrick,* she said, putting her arm around his neck and laying her cheek against bis shoulder. .‘Remember you are go ing baok to-morrow, old fellow. T do wish, though, you had never taken that river place. You are looking thin and sallow already. Good crops won’t make up for chills and fevers, Find nobody to nurse and coddle you as I always used to do. I know you miss me, bnt not as much as I miss you. 1 get quite cross and be side myself, sometimes. Yon need a change; why don’t you pay that visit to Birdie Desd you promised her? I’ll go through Malta and take yon there to-morrow. I want an excuse to stop and see Birdie, any how.’ ‘ That would be nice. And they could spare me now that aunt Mitt is here to help with the housekeeping. Malta is always so pleasant in the spring, and so many new people have come in since I was there last summer.’ Her cheek flashed a pretty pink as she spoke. Perhaps the presence in Malta of some one of these ‘ new people’ gave a special secret attrac tion to the place —an attraction she would not have dared to confess to herself, much less to that fond, but fierce, prejudiced and rather reckless young fellow at her side. The visit so suddenly planned was really made. Adelle’s father, looking at her keenly, declared she had been mopy and drooping of late, and bade her go and stay as long as she liked, so that she brought back the roses and bright eyes he missed, which was self-denying on his part, seeing that ‘daughter,’ as he loved to call her, was the delight of bis heart When Lanier came next day he found the pi azza and the sitting room window unadorned by the pretty figure in cool-tinted prints, whose little hand he had been want to grasp so warm ly as to make the red drop from her cheeks and a shiver run through her frame. He was very angry when he found she had gone, and though Mama Holman improvised a little message of farewell from the flown bird, he received it in sullen silence and mounting his horse galloped away in high disgust. ( TO UK CONTrNDKD. ) THE OLD TABBY HOUSE. BY GARY Eri’ Me IVOR Major saw an opening upon his wight. A wall of rock jutted out into the stream, and a series of rude stone steps led up to the shore above. In a few moments his boat had neared this rock stairway, when a loud whistle, and the report of fire-arms startled the frightened American. His boat was seized by a large, strong hand: the Majoi was fairly lifted out of it, and carried, almost breathless, to the bank above. He had almost lost the sense of feeling. He was nnu ble to utter a word, and fora season everything was in contusion around him. When he return ed to consciousness, his hands were firmly bound, his eyes were blindfolded, and he was being dragged forward over stones and bram bles. He was a prisoner—that was his first con clusion, but who were his captors ? What did they mean to do with him ? ‘ Couarge, Senor,’ said a voice in a low whis per which lie recognized as that of the Creole. ‘Courage Senor, it is only a little way, aDd all will be well. Take a little of this strong water,’ continued the Creole, ‘ and you will feel better.’ ‘ What does this mean ?’ gasped the Major, when he had taken a pull at the flask placed to his lips, and felt the reviving influence of the liquor. < ‘ Oh ! nothing, Senor, it is only a way we have to keep secrets,’ said the Creole. ‘ In the name of heaven,’ answered Barton, ‘I don’t want to know your secrets ! ’ ‘ Perhaps not, Senor,’ said the Creole, ‘but many others do, and we are only anxious to let other people mind their own affairs, without meddling with ours. We are brave men, Senor Barton, and will not harm you.’ The Major did not feel very much assured by this speech, notwithstanding the tone ot the Creole was as kind as the outlaw knew how to make it. Presently the Major was required to stoop very low, and then to crawl on his hands and knees, no easy task to him with his wrists in irons, bui after awhile he heard the sound of voices, and the ringing of glasses. There was evidently a considerable company assembled, and his ear caught the words of the following DRINKING SONG. Drink, drink, drink ! for we have no time to Lhiuk. Death to every care and sorrow ! Drink, drink, drink ! tho’ we’re on the very bri.k, We shall never gee to-morrow. Drink, drink, drink ! let the merry glasses clink. Let the coward, courage borrow*! Drink, drink, drink! tho’ we're on the very brink. We shall never »ee to-morrow! Drink, drink, drink ! let out every golden link, That can bind the limbs of sorrow ! Drink, drink, drink ! for we’re on the very brink. Yet we’ll never see to-morrow ! Drink, drink, drink ! for we have no time to think, Let the coward’s conraire borrow ! Drink, i rink, drink ! for the vessel soon will sink— We’il be dead and gone to-mor. ow 1 There was a wild and yet plaintive melody in the music of this simple song, bnt the enthusi asm of the company, and the rambling echoes of the notes as they rang through the rocky sides and arches of the cave, thrilled the poor Major as he had never been stirred before by music. ‘ Ha ! whom have we here ?’ said the leader of the band, as the three Creoles dragged their cap tive into the room. ‘An American traveler, Senor Captain,’ re plied one of the men. ‘By the Lord,’ said Gaston, for it was no other, ‘ it seems to me that I have seen that nose be fore. Off with the bandage, Francisco—Oh, ho ! Major Barton ! Pardon ns, my friend, for rough treatment. But really we have a select company here, and are very careful about our visitors. We have a cosy palace here, you perceive Major— the front door opens on the mountain side, and the back door faces the sea. But a pleasant place, Major, a pleasant place, good company, good wine, and an easy life. Gentlemen—noble men of the Marine Republic ! a health to Major Barton, guest and friend of the ever Faithful Isle ! Take a glass of wine, Major—oh! I see - you have the bracelets on him, eh? Francisco, remove the irons from the bands of the Ameri- ican General—fact, gentlemen, one of the bra vest men in the United States Army—stormed a fort of the Seminole Indians with a squad of men, and captured three squaws and a papoose ! Eh, Major ? ’ The Major did not feel particularly compli mented, by this statement of bis prowess, but the rude and riotous company, not understand ing the Captain’s phrases, evidently thought the squaws and the papoose to be some formidable species of warriors, and therefore they applaud ed the Major, until the rock walls resounded with their cries of bravo ! bravo !! When the noise had subsided somewhat, and the hearty welcomes of the band had ceased, the Major was seated near the Captain, and joined readily in tbeir libations of wine, and ventured, even to sing them a song. The Major's voice was not very musical, and bis song was in English, which not a man among tbem understood, save the singer and the Captain,so that the Spaniards were not much the wiser of either song or senti ment (Continued on 6th page.)