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Mad all Her Days.
By MRS. AMELIA T. PURDY.
CHAPTER III.
• Papa was deranged quite awhile before he
committed suicide.’ the sweet voice went on;
• and Vale was the only one who had any power
to lift his mind out of its deep gloom, and she
lost it too, after a certain time. When he was
at himself he often said he would not feel at all
afraid to leave us all in her charge. She is so
brave and strong and is never confused, never
has a ‘ buzzing in her head ’ like most women
have when adversity sets in, and she is almost
infinite in resources.’ A pink wave of color
mounts up to the white cheek. ‘ It was a long
time before we could brooji the idea of allowing
her to keep a shop. It was a false pride, but
we had been rich for generations and it is hard*
er to unlearn than you think. It is not as easy
for folks to change their habit of thought as it
is to change their dress, but we were so uncom
fortable that we finally consented. So, Vale
came home to us and she keeps everything go
ing like clock work. You wont find another
girl like our Vale north or south.'
• I believe it,’ he said emphatically.
«We do right well, we have no cause to com
plain , ’ Pearl goes on, 4 but sometimes I want
things we have not means to purchase and un
wittingly give expression to it. My disease
makes me unreasonable, for Mamma is always
satisfied and Daisy never asks for anything.
Vale earned five dollars that night at aunt Har
riett’s and bought wine for me and I cried when
I found it out. Aunt is a northern lady and af
ter papa died, she wrote to ua to come here,
that we could do better than we were doing in
New Orleans. She made Vale a very fine offer.’
There is just a dash of irony in the clear voice.
4 but Vale preferred hard work and poverty with
us.’
Camber smiles.
4 1 heard it—and it reflects infinite credit on
your aunt’s head and heart. ’
Vale comes in with the heavy basket, laden
with eatables, her cheeks red as roses and the
dark eyes star bright. Camber lifts the basket
from her arm and places it on the table.
4 Quite too heavy for you to carry, mon ami.’
4 Nonsense, ’ laughingly. 4 1 have carried
heavier burdens than that. How we change,
some of us for the worse and some for the bet
ter. I can remember how, in the old luxurious
days, my parasol tired me, and a long walk sent
me to bed with a negro to fan me and ice3 close
at hand. Now if you were to ask me if I am
glad that aimless, worthless life is over I should
say yes, but you are not to assume by that how
ever, that I really enjoy carrying vegetables and
butter and lard through the streets. There is a
great deal of merit in doing well, things that
ought to be done and that we dislike to do.
Mr. Camber, don’t you believe all little sister
says of me; she lovingly exaggerates. I am just
like all other women—a mixture of good and
bad qualities. Going ? Why not stay to tea,
since you seem to eDjoy being with us?’
‘He smiles down upon her.’
‘I have found here, my beau ideal of a home,
I enjoy myself so thoroughly here, that I wish
I could bid adieu forever tp the wicked old world
and take board with you. Child ! I have never
had a home. I might have been a good man
(his face clouds) had I had loveing partnts and
sisters, I think it a great privilege to visit here
though I feel liko a black crow among white
doves, but I wiil lose that feeling after awhile.
I am dead in earnest about reformation. You
will b6 a missionary in spite of yourself and
how much of this mission work, you women
could do if you would.’
‘Not a dollar would I give to Foreign missions,’
she replies derisively. ‘While one unredeemed,
unclaimed soul of Caucasian race, dwelt among
us. When there i® po necessi'y for Home mis
sions it is time enough, to care for the souls cf
the lower types. We can not do our whole duty
by both. Let us save first the race of which
Christ was born, the race that will be monarch
of the world yet, always higher and better, and
by brightness of braiD, better able to undersold
and appreciate the universe and its Creator.
No you think with me about active and passive
goodness ? You know we talked of that, at Mrs.
Deane's.’ She tears off a cabbage leaf shrivel
ed by frost and throws it down with a curl of
the red lip. 4 I would’nt give that for passive
goodness or for faith without works. Don’t
quote scripture, don’t pray five mile prayers,
act piously, nobly and honorably. Let each
day be fra’grant with Christian acts and Chris
tian sacrifices and unselfishness, that is the true
way to live and that is the only Christianity God
will accept.’
‘I know what a lot of sinners Christ would
eject from the temple should he visit earth.
I want to be a good Christian or remain as I am.
I prefer that to hypocrisy. ‘Camber answers
then with a steady look at Pearl. ‘I think I
understand fully 'what ones duty is since my
eyes have opened,’
He kisses the little girl and goes away.
Next morning a luxurious crimson invalid’s
chair on rollers, with a reading desk attached
is sent to Pearl, together with a hamper filled
with the finest Old Port, hot house grapes
and fioweis, though it is mid winter, piles
the la'est publications and delicate confec
tionary. When he calls next evening the face
Pearl lifts for the usual kiss is bright and
her eyes sparkles through tears. She is so
small that she is almost lost in its crimson
depths and in her white dress—summer and
winterjthey diess her only in white,—with her
beautiful hair showering about her, and stray
ing over the wine velvet, she is a fair enough
picture to delight any artist eye. How his hard
Byronic face, softens as he bends over ner with,
‘And you like it Titania ?’
4 1 have not been tired all day,’ she answers,
‘and Daisy has rolled me out in the store and
out in the dining room, and the reading deskis
such an addition: I can’t tell you how much
pleasure it has given us all. Mama inspected it
and said it was beautiful.’
4 You have given my darling a great pleasure,’
Mrs. Dtan saya huskily, I thank you so much
and wish I could see you. My daughter says
you resemble Lord Byron: if you do, I know
quite well how you look.’
4 1 don’t think it a compliment,’ he answers;
‘I would prefer to look like Newton, Milton or
any one of the world’s heroes, who was good as
well as great. Mrs. Dean,’ changing the subject
with characteristic abruptness, 4 can you tell
when a candle is lighted in a dark room ?’ He
has begun to watch her with keen interest, with
an object in view that time is slowly developing.
It is begining to be a conviction with him that
her sight may be ultimately restored.
• When I am in good physical condition,’ Mrs.
Depne replies, ‘I cun tell when light is passed
before my eyelids, at other times I cannot.
Whv ?’
‘Nothing,’ very carelessly and directing
thought into other channels, tnat suspicion of
his purpose might not bo arroused. When the
weather breaks he comes often for ‘Titania’ and
drives out on the hills and down by the river,
named* by the Indians—the beautiful, and
associating thus with purity aud moral grand
eur, and intellect surpassing the average wo
man, he grows better and purer. He finds a
culture in the little shop, he has not found else
where. The blind mother is indescribably lovely,
Yale is the sunniest and strongest woman he has
ever known. It strikes him now and then, that
she is essentially masculine, and is capable of
viewing nay question from a man’s standpoint.
She is superior to the coquetries of dress,
though excessively neat. She shows him in
many ways how little regard she has for admi
ration, but for all that the good in him, vibrates
at her touch and his olden haunts know him no
mere. Many women never have a gentleman
friend—intimate acquaintance trasforms them
into lovers, this would doubtless have been his
fate—the lovely will always be loved, but for
his passionate love for the girl who is the
heroine of my story.
Yale is familiar with this infatuation. His
revelations have not .been partial,—he has made
her a veritable father confessor, and as the time
draws near fbr the wedding, heroes oftener and
stays longer beside the little cripple, strength
ened by the sympathy that is unspoken and the
endeavor of his girl counselor to lead thought
into another channel. So they talk of books,
authors, late discoveries and poets and foreign
lands, and sometimes Bertie, the baby, aged
three, keeps him employed for hours over
Grimm, dear, wonderful, old Grimm, and the
Arabian Nights; time not wasted since it involv
ed self-forgetfulness, but the day dawus at last,
and the church is crowded, and soon the fair
bride enters, in her pearl silk and priceless lace
overdress and pearls like marbles of snow, and
walks to the marriage altar with the groom, no
less handsome, whom all men envy. At a dis
tance, Camber hears the vows uttered that make
them man and wife. For the first time in his
life it occurs to him that if anything were calcu
lated to exalt aud ennoble a man, the blind trust
and confidence of the bride at the marriage altar
should. Under the parade and foolery of the
occasion, the utter solemnity of the sacrifice is
apparent to him who stops to think. Under the
orange blossoms of the time lurks a serpent that
will surely drive the unthinking bride from her
Eden, for she neither realizes nor understands
the depth of the oath she is taking. She goes
out gladly from parents and brothers and sisters,
to venture out on untried seas, with a man she
does not know at all; for no girl knows a man’s
disposition or nature till she weds him, and
time alone must determine whether she has
made or marred her lays. Wherever there is a
wedding there is an Eden and two laughing
fools in it, and after that, generally an awaken
ing and mutual disappointment.
Camber does not believe this marriage will end
happily, and to her whom society congratulates
he gives heartfelt condolences. What to him are
the Paris overdresses of thread lace, and the jew
els and silks and velvets and sables of the finest
trousseau ever known in the city, for wealthy
aunts and uncles abroad had been lavish with
gifts that royalty could not disdain. She wears
ten thousand dollar’s worth of diamonds, the gift
of the groom, and he has also given her a brown
stone at fifty thousand dollars; ‘But’ muttered
Camber under his breath, ‘It were better he gave
what is more precious than either—the love of
a true, good man, and a woman like her would
much rather have, for a life companion, a man
in whom she would never be disappointed, than
to be Empress of the Eussias,’ and he goes away,
sarcastically oblivious of the twelve bridemaids
in tulle and flowers, and their black robed atten
dants, so grave of face that their gravity verges
close on the comical, and drives around to the
little shop for the consolation that never fails
him there.
‘No one in but Pearl,’ calls out Yale cheerily
from behind the counter, where she is cleaning
the dusty shelves. ‘I prevailed on Mother to go
out aud spend the day; perhaps I’ll get through
in time to chat a few minutes, but if I don’t,’—
she pauses, with a great wet rag in one hand, a
black mark across her forehead, and seeing un
mistakable admiration in his eyes, adds, ‘It will
not be much loss to you,’ and divining from the
nature of her occupation that her face is not
likely to be clean, laughs and orders him away.
Pearl divines intuitively how to console him.
To-day she has a harrowing story to relate ( of a
brutal landlord and a workman’s fall from a
three-story building and a sick wife and new
baby, and not a dollar saved. It mov< -hi u, al
ways, to hear of suffering, suffering affects him
so unpleasantly that when he finds it he does
not wait, as is the fashion, for his neighbors to
relieve it, he relieves it himself.
This inability to witness suffering makes
many a man charitable; we will do anything to
prevent personal discomfort. Selfishness is so
strong in us, and because his conscience would
reproach him through the night if he let pass
this opportunity to do good, he put the little
girl into his phaeton and left the poor carpen
ter in possession of more comforts and money
than he had had in many a day. After obtain
ing from him a solemn promise of secrecy Pearl
takes him to see Vale's proteges—a respectable
couple who have seen better days. They make
fancy articles, wooden toys etc., and tiieold lady
is a famous knitter, and knits caps and baby
sacks and the like, all of which Yale disposes of
in her store. From them he learns that Vale
pays their rent and helps them in many ways,
and the old lady shows with great gleo several
dozen of dolis which she is to dress and which
will be quite a little revenue, also obtained by
Miss Deane. Camber drives away and soon re
turns with the phaeton tilled with groceries, and
the old lady insists on their staying to tea, and
while she prepares it the old gentleman, while
he whittles out of soft wood mustard spoons
and doll’s knives and forks, relates the old story
of sickness, bankruptcy aDd man’s inhumanity
to man and an indigent old age' The deepen
ing of twilight warns them that they must re
turn homo and so they take leave of the happy,
loving old couple and tarn their faces home
ward.
‘I want you to stay to tea, Mr. Camber, \ ale
says as he deposits Pearl in her chair, and di
vining the latent kindness of the invitation he
remains. After tea she hands him the ‘Marble
Faun,’ and asks him to read aloud, and he com
plies gladly—for thought is the one thing he is
the most desirous ot escaping, tho ught of the
beautiful bride and her immolation, that to him
is not a whit less terrible than the suttee of the
Kajah’s young widow. Pearl leans back in her
chair and her eyes glow with appreciation of
the unique story. Mrs. Dean, silent and inter
ested rocks the idol of the household, who is
fast asleep. Daisy, already a woman in dignity
and feeling, is basting dresses for the machine.
Vale is across the table trimming hats and the
noble face is serenely happy, because all whom
she loves are grouped about her and well and
happy, and who has all this, and is not con
sciously thankful therefor, will some day re
pent it, in the bitterness of sorrow, when they
stand desolate out in the world or sit alone by
the quiet fireside, with only a cricket for com
pany, and the music of voices that are heard no
more’ringing in their ears, while the reproach
of pleasant words that were not spoken, and the
caresses that were not given, and the memory
of hasty words and bitter remarks, and coldness
torture the sensitive heart. Ah God ! if we on
ly would do right one towards another, so that
after death memory might not reproach us. We
treat the chance guest, whom we do not even
love with respect and consideiation and we
scold and lacerate the loved ones, whom we love
better than our souls aud whose death would
make an eternal vacuum in our hearts, and yet,
they too, are only on a visit which may end to
day or next week, for all time.
Pearl's eyes wander from the handsome kiDg-
ly reader to the face of her idolized elder sister
and again she dreams the dream that will some
day, 3he believes be realized, when over her in
animate dust the white hyacinths spring like
stars, and child as she is in years, she has di
vined what has never occurred to Camber—that
Vale loves him. She sees a deeper lustre in the
gray eyes at his approach and how her nature
turns its sunny side, rich in verdure and flow
ers, to greet him as all natures, even the grim
mest give summer and sunshine to decorate
love’s altars. *
‘He is bound to appreciate her in the end,’
she says low in her heart. ‘She is like the brave
woman in the story and I wish the dear Lord
would let me stay here till they* are married.’
The head of the family would have been woe
fully humiliated had she suspeecied that the
secret she guarded in the deepest reuses of her
heart was known to the child, whose protracted
sufferings had refined and deepened her insight;
and in all the days of his bright, luxurious man
hood he had never seen so loved before. Most
men see love where it could never b9, this man,
deficient in self-conceit, saw it not where it was,
but had he stopped to analyze his feelings, he
must have discovered that more than common
interest led him away from the glitter and whirl
of the gay world to find peace and companion
ship in the little sitting-rbom back of the dingy
shop; an interest that’grew and intopsified
from day to day and that wrought a total refor
mation in thoughts, habits and nature. Some
times we walk by a flower for years and ffo not
see it, and lo! like a flash we take in all its
wealth of beauty and odor and - gather it and
place it in our heart, and some day Camber will
turn with glad eyes to pluck the royal blossom
that unnoticed filled his path with perfume.
There were days and days that Pearl was too
sick to sit up, and discovering acc’dsstahy that
music southed and lulled pain, he removed
the cabinet piano from his own library and
placed it in the little sitting-room, resenting
with a scowl Vale’s unexpressed but sufficient
ly intelligible remonstranoe to being placed
under such heavy obligations.
‘Let me alone, Miss Vale,’he said, ourtly,
4 I am trying to work out my salvation. It would
be passive goodness to sympathize with your
sister’s passion for music, be sorry and all that
and make no effort to get it for her. If 1 prac
tice the lesson you have taught me, thank your
self. I neyer did a kindly act till I met you.
When I offer you anything yon can decline to
take it and suit yourself, but any thing I can
do'for Titania to make her few short years pleas
ant, I intend to do. I’ve heard you are a mar
vellous performer, so brighten ' up your face,
you proudest of proud women, and play for us.’
‘You do not understand me,’ she says, lightly.
•Don’t I?’ cynically. 4 My friend, you are
one of the most transparent women I have ever
known. Your appreciatiou of every kindness
shown you, is deep and .lasting, but rather
than be the recipient of kindness, you would
work all night and earn money to hire this
piano. You would rather be envied’dian sym
pathized with. *Your natare rev 'ts at tne
cross of obligation. Understand j(fm, I cer
tainly do; now play for us,’ and shy played as
he had never heard woman play before, and
after a pause the glorious contralto filled the
room, pure as the lark’s notes are when it pier
ces sun-beam after suu-beam and ascends high
er and higher into the blue ether, till the earth
lies below like a note, while the man sat by
dumb with the ecstasy that all lovers of perfect
melody feel. When the fashionable young
graduate of a fashionable boarding school open
ed her piano he made his exit rapidly; when the
ordinary performer, whose performance ranks
in music, as Mother Goose’s Melodies in poesy,
began to thunder on the keys, he inconti
nently fled, loving music too well to hear it
butchered, and being a proficient himself, but
to music like this he could have listened for
days.
‘You are a splendid performer,’ he said as
she concluded. 4 I did not think, even in New
Orleans, that you could have been so thorough
ly drilled.’ V
‘I went for two years to the conservatory of
music in Paris,’ she replied, ‘afu’4 moreover,
music is a passion,with me, and nr.f only tal
ent. I have wished often and oftts'that I had
been given literary genius in place f f it. It is
,vgrand g;fyTo be able lo teach- tfc poem
and story, and to brighten dark iivps as only
'the thinker can. Let them rail at fiction who
will, g. strong, sensible stoiv inspirits me like
mountain air. If the author be full of magne
tism, no matter how depressed I am, I will,
catch her enthusiasm, and rouse out of self and
walk hand in hand through tho pages: but
Pearl is asleep and the clock is str:kiag nine—
we workers], must keep primitive hours, so
gcod-night.’
‘Good-night,’he answers, and goes back to
his gorgeous rooms and nurses his discontent
and retrocedes till he enters again the charmed
presence.
(to be continued.)
The Beautiful Widow’s Lore.
Near the old sea coast town of G—lived a
number cf wealthy rice planters. These proud,
exclusive people exhibited a phase of life at once
praiseworthy, contradictory, and peculiar. Kind
to excess to the poor around them, they yet felt
it an imperative duty to deny hospitality to the
stranger; gentle, courtly mannered, they could
not forgive the slightest breach of etiquette, but
granted rather large indulgences to certain sins,
and Binners. Kigid, high-churoh Episcopa
lians, and worshipers of the Carpenter’s son,
they yet disdained all trades-people as 4 com
mon and unclean.’ Little unknown specks of
creation, they judged the whole great world
from their small standpoint, and felt the sub
lime content of being one of the powers, if not
the power of creation.
Money was here a power, money and blood.
The wealthiest lady of all this land was Mrs.
Dermont, and she sprang from a rac9 whose
pedigree was noted down in an old book, old as
the hills.
For generations the Dermont place had been
known for its grand old live-oaks, its choice
shrubbery and flowers. This beauty had been
allowed to remain, save now and then slight
changes were made to suit more modern taste.
August Dermont, the last of his race, had late
ly died, leaving his childless widow, and it W'as
areal grief to the other old families, that so proud
and good a name was to fade away. None doubt
ed that Mrs. Claire would be allowed to remain
unmated long.
A short distance from the Dermont place lived
Mr. Paul St.'Claire, and his daughter, Flor
ence. They were a kind of accidental family—
such as are often met elsewhere -pi/ family whose
marked individuality was their 1 -own, and who
walked in their broad, high ways, untrammelled
by narrow, fixed prejudice of neighbors.
Mr. St. Claire had made Florence the compan
ion of his travels, the sharer of his knowledge.
Her pensive beauty, and graceful manners, ren
dered her a most agreeable addition to this little
community, even with those, who failed to ap
preciate the girl’s singularly fine character.
There was one who certainly knew the full
value of Florence St. Claire, the young physi
cian, Dr. Abraham Stewart. Yet he was con
strained, and dfiident in tne presence of the
young lady, as he was with no other. With Mrs.
Dermont how easy and’ talkative he could be !
The brilliant widow listening with delight at his
full, flowing language.
The favorite resort, cf the young people, and
oft times the old, was Mrs. Dermont’s charming
home. Here beauty made her abode. Sculp
ture, paintings, books, music and flowers were
disposed about and dispensed by one skilirnl in
the art of entertaining. Elegant refreshments,
and still other pleasures, administered by the
hands of the fair sorceress, rendered the place
an Elysium, and time a dream.
Tuerewas no guest more weloome than Dr
Stewart, and this the Dr. knew by that subtle
art whereby the fair mistress contrived to give
this knowledge, and yet not offend one of the
many others who felt themselves so welcomed
too. Miss St. Claire was sometimes seen to
mipgle with the pleasant visitors at Mrs Der-
monts, though between herself and the widow
there wag no progress towards friendship. The
younger lady felt that she could never look into
those dark, burning eyes and find there an atom
of love for herself; while Mrs. Dermont dismiss
ed the pensive beauty from her mind as too com
monplace to gain her interest.
The days wore on, and those queer, nice peo
ple, found their modicum of the great world a
changing place as all humanity finds it every
where. Virtue was daily marching to its re
ward—vice to its ruin.
Mrs. Dermont’s brilliant parlors were filled
one evening with her friends. Florence St.
Claire and Dr. Stewart were of the number.
The Dr. was changed in his conduct toward
Miss St. Claire. He was not over attentive, but
there was that iu his manner which betrayed a
certain right he seemed to feel of protection
over the girl.
When the last guest had departed the beauti
ful hostess threw herself in a large easy chair in
her deserted parlor, and gave way to thoughts
that cast a gloom over her face. Was it wine
that flushed the Dr’s, face when she rallied him
about Miss St. Claire, or blushes ? Was it the
intoxication of the champagne that made him
utter those words as they walked in the con
servatory ? Words that wrung her proud heart,
though the cool smile never left her face.
‘Am I not right in making Florence my choice,
Mrs. Dermont ? Is she not best and fairest of all
the girls in the country ? Come, you are my
most valued friend and I-want your approval.’
These words he said, and they fell upon ears
that had long waited to hear love-words spoken
by those lips to herself! And she’, the proud
queen, hadjshown him such preference ! She,
at whose feet suitors were always kneeling, and
from all she had turned away for him. Had he
not lingered around her with the lovelight in
his eyes ? Was she mistaken ? Never.
Alas ! for a woman scorned ! The beautiful
face was in a contortion of agony. The fiercest
passions, love and hate, tore her soul in dread
ful strength.
‘Ha ! I was not made to be scorned ! I Clara
Dermont, with my wealth, my beauty, my
name ! Who dare trifle with me ? Is it this
girl—this puny miss ! and this man, Abram
Stewart—that I—love, love, aye love.’
She tramped her deserted saloon, and the
glare of the tigress shone from her glittering
eyes. She did not heed the unloosening of
hsr coils of hair, the falliug of waves of dark
ness around her form. The costly, pearl-stud
ded comb fell at her feet to be crushed into
atoms, as oblivious of these small things she
was consumed by a mighty grief. Her beauty
was terrible at this moment. The wondrous
transformation from the so it, enticing smile,
the molest drooping eyes k-as magical.
The door opened and a, pretty mulatto called
to know whether she needed her attention.
‘Begone this instant, how dare you intrude
upon me you miserable girl !’
Bernice fled lightly to the stairway where
the old grey haired butler was nodding, and
awaiting his mistress.
‘Missus is in oue of them bad ways, uncle
Ned better be still and ax nothin.’
‘Kiel’ was the expressive answer of the but
ler as he drooped again tor his nodding.
’Sa ! now we have got to do things pertickelar.
‘Watch yerself Bernice, watch yerself omnn,
for ye is bout em de closest’—and the old man
again went dutifully to his nodding.
All the next day Mrs. Dermont sat in her
‘boudior’ writing on rose tinted paper. She
was issuing invitations to a grand ball she
would give in a week. Yet in anticipating this
festival there shone no pleasure in her face,
but a look that told of smothered wrath, of
nf ansthw i'nit, tbfM> llftewisa fftigu-
ed in her heart. Yet this stronge nefveful
woman curbed and reined iu ail feeling with
bit aud bridle hold by a commanding hand.
‘Something is up Bernice,’ said the butler
solemnly—‘Missus is agwine to break out sum
mers; I know dat B-unfield blood, Now you
walk sur e-footed oman and watch. Mebbe we
incut scape de storm.’
Mrs. Dermont went into the pantry where the
butler and Bernice were busy preparing for the
grand supper.
‘Let me mix this cake, Bernice, and you take
my letters to the office.’
It was a rare thing for Bernice to do, but the
mistress often worked her own cake. Once she
stood near the window to beat in tho ingredi
ents. She turned—her flashing glance rested
on tho butler, who suddenly changed his posi
tion. Had he been watching her ? There was
only the demure, humble expression on the ne
gro’s face, so the keen physiognomist went on
with her work.
It was a magnificent occasion—from the su
perb hostess, the splendid company and gor
geous rooms to the feast, where the zones of the
earth were made to contribute to the lady’s
dainty taste. Mrs. Dermont excelled herself in
courtesy to her guests. Not a delicate kindness,
not a thoughtful word was forgotten. All the
usages of this refined society the widow had
upon her finger ends, and played her part so
well none questioned her sincerity.
She stood beside Dr. Stewart and Miss St.
Claire chatting and brightly laughing; then in
her insinuating smiling way begged them to
take with her a glass of wine and some cake.
They ate aud drank, this happy trio, then the
feast was ended, and all repaired to the ball
room.
The last dance was over. Florence St. Claire
went to the reception room where Bernice soon
brought her wrappers. Was it joy at the bril
liant success of the evening that caused the
beautiful face of the hostess to glow In a singu
lar triumph? Yet she calmed herself; even
the excitement of pleasure must not be too
plainly seen.
4 Oh ! father I am very ill and faint,’ Florence
exclaimed, as she joined him in the parlor,
ready to return. •
‘You do look ill, my child; your face is ashy
white,’ and the anxious parent led her to a sofa
to rest, then called Dr. Stewart.
The Doctor bent over his betrothed, thinking
some ordinary fainting spell had come over her.
As he gazed in her face, and noticed certain
twitchings there and of her hands, his counte
nance changed—and he sprang through the
doorway to call an aged physician whose repu
tation was known over the state. He spoke
hurriedly and excitedly. The older man laugh
ed, chiding what he called silly fancies, then
walked to the sofa where Florence lay—he seem
ed careless at first, then a terrible darkness came
over his face—
‘Good Heavens, Stewart, you are right! She
is poisoned as I live. Now haste for her life
depends upon the time you travel that mile.’
In a twinkling the young Doctor was oa his
fleet, horse and going for life over the one
mile to his office. Ho was back in a brief time,
then the cool old Doctor, whose pulse was not
beatiDg madly ’twixt love aud fear, plied his
skill upon the now agonized girl.
There was no uproar. The guests had gone
one by one, not noticing the closed parlor door,
when others were thrown open. Whose cun
ning hands moved and governed these giddy
ones, so that they saw not nor heard the com
motion in the parlor ? There was an actress
playing her part to an audience who knew not
the pretty smiles, the little toying graces were
, unreal, yet, there was a heart that throbbed all
the while in unntterable fears.
When the last guest was gone Mrs. Dermont
took her place beside Miss St. Claire, where she
had been at short intervals from the first. She
bent kindly, affectionately over the poor girl
who hovered on the borders of death.
* When the twinkling stars were fading out in
presence of day, all danger was pronounced
over. Dr. Stewart, prostrated with fears, was
now overcome with joy, and wept. There were
other scalding tears, and they fell from the dark
beauteous orbs of the queenly Mrs. Dermont.
Were they tears of joy also ?
Mrs. Dermont.spoke of having an investiga
tion of’the affair, but toe happy in their great
escape, the St. Claires and Dr. Stewart readily
urged that nothing of the kind be done.
There were a few months of unalloyed happi
ness to the lovers, then came annoyances of all
kinds. Anonymous letters, petty invention
of degraded hearts! rumors derogatory - to the
Dr. o* his intended bride, yet coming no one
knew whence. But true love if it did not run
smooth overcame all obstacles and the dootor
won his bride. Mrs. Dermont was at the wed
ding, dazzling all beholders by her rare beauty.
She was in one of those calm, self-contained
moods of hers, when she accepted homage kind
ly, but did not exert herself to bestow upon
others what she charmingly received. In these
phases of her character her lovers became bold
er in their devotions, and this wedding night
the bride was often over looked, for the star of
the evening was the matchless, queenly widow.
The doctor had expended much precious time
and money in fitting up a delightful home for
his bride. The night after his wedding he was
aroused from slumber by a broad light in his
room. He arose to find his house in flames.
For a time there seemed no way of escape —the
red flames leaped all around his room. Final
ly he thought of the beddiDg and throwing that
from the window to soften bis fail, he took his
wife in his arms and made the dangerous bound.
They were saved but the building and its con
tents were consumed. Evidently some fiendish
incendiary had done the cruel deed.
Primus, the doctor’s black joeman, shook his
head knowingly, and forbade the people from
‘mekkin tracks ‘bout de place till he was done
sarchin*. 4
After walking in a beDt posture around the
place some time, he returned to the doctor
holding a stick a few inches long. ‘Masser dere
is one strange foot here, and it’s a chiles. De
foot nebber come by a gate, but cross dat flower
garden wall at the corner, den circle round till
it come rite up to de front door. An’ I is sar-
ten, sarten Masser it’s a chile wat done this
deed.’
‘A child ! how could a child harm me when I
was? never unkind to one in my life ?’
‘Kie ! Massr Abram, chilun sometime is jes axe
for older people fur cut wood wid. Now Mar-
ser Abram don’t say a word. Foots is marked,
and I knows bout all de foots in dere parts,
kase you see I has a way of scudyin’ foots, from
de fact dat my bizness is to watch tracks an’ see
who bodders de place. You see Marser Abram
my ole Oman loss some chickens now morn a
fortnight, and I cotch de rogue by de track.
Great mussv, dat same little foot wat got de big
toe twiss round like, an’ de second toe of de
lef’ foot stumped off a leetle is de foot wat bin
here !’
‘Whose foot is it Primus ?’
Don’t ax a question Marser Abram, don’t say
a word. Jest stay here, and keep ’truders off,
so dem tracks will stand clear. I kin walk a
mile in no time. The negro marched off' selmn-
iy-
‘He is going to Mrs. Dermont’s place,’ said
Florence in a whisper.
‘My poor bird you seem more frightened at
that than you did at the fire. I daresay the
small tracks were made by some child prow
ling around through curiosity.’
‘O ! I feel that this and the poison came from
the same hand ! If we could only go away—far
away."
‘We shallVmy wife. Now that my home is
gone, wfe can leave the easier.’
In a short time Primus returned with a small
black boy, whose eyes rolled in terror,
‘See his foot tits ebery track. Now tell you
little son of Dehial wat make you bun dis
house ?’ The boy was silent, then burst into
tears.
‘Git me de rope fur ter hang am men, as high
as Nimmon, den bring de axe fur ter chop off
his head, an arter dat you can trow em in de
fire an bun em up to nottin ?’
The negroes ran to obey the stern commands,
while the boy trembled in agony.
‘Feas now boy, fore you die, or de debbil will
git yon soul an’ body. Who mek you bun dis
bouse ?’
‘Missus ! Missus gio me de ting fur mek em
bun, an’ Missus gie me dis money for hush
arter I bun em, and he showed a few pieces of
silver coin.’
Florence with blanched face clutched her
husband’s arm.
‘Hie, boy yon tick you gine lie on dat fine
bokra * omen jest fere de gallus? Hitch em
men !’
0 ! Lordy Marser Primus, me no lie, Missus
tell me tur bun em. Do Mars Doctor save me.
Missus mek me bun em !’
‘Come boy I will save your life if you. will
tell me the truth. ’
‘Yes, Mars doctor I done tell de trute !’
‘Now where was your mistress when you
burnt my house ?’ asked the Qr. sternly.
‘In dem woods Sir, rite day by de ole hurri
cane.’
‘You can show where she stood if she was
there. Go with me Primus and see if he speaks
truly.’
In a brief time Primus returned looking very
solemn. He walked up to his master and whis
pered in his ear :
‘Tracks fur sure dere Marser Abram. See the
gaiter shoe track of a bokra oman !’
Florence caught the startled look on her hus
bands face, and read the terrible truth. * *
When the Stewarts and St. Claires were in
their new far off home. Mrs. Dermont still
reigned in this feudal like old society. The
fine old name she bore, the riches and beauty,
that threw a glamous over the whispers of gos
sips, kept her in her high place. But she never
married. This one, ill-starred love, made her
indifferent to the wooings of the men, who still
dared to wish to win the prize. But the old
society has crumbled away, a rougher, but a
purer has taken its place.
Gage Hampstead.
* [Common expression forpsvhite with low country
negroes.)
Patti and (jersier-uaraim are tne rival
stars in London just now, the former at Covent
Carden and the latter at the Haymarket.
Adelina Patti's sixty thousand dollar neck
lace was recently offered for sale in Paris, bnt
the highest bid was only sixteen thousand.
General Henry Raymond, with one exception
the oldest surviving veteran of the war of 1812,
has been stricken with paralysis an d now lies
in a critical condition at his home in Jersey
City.
Two Irishmen were traveling when they slop
ed to examine a guide-post. ‘Twelve miles to
Portsmouth,’ said one. ‘Just six miles a piece,’
said the other. And they trudged on apparent
ly satisfied at the distance.
‘How did you learn that graceful attitude ?
said a gentleman to a fellow leaning in a tipsy
fashion against a post. 4 I have been practicing
at a glass.’ {