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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.’ {