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anthem, ‘We praise Thee oh ^ d of hosts.’ she
hardly felt astonishment to fiod how well she
sang it. Hor notes rang pare and true and
nearly as roand and fall as of old.
She sang on, triumphant as Miriam, feeling
every word of thanksgiving that poured from
her swelling throat. She felt it almost as a di
rect answer to her prayer—this restoration of
the gift that had been withdrawn from her.
l^hree weeks had been passed in practice, in
the reoovery of her health, and in gradual re
moval of the causes that operated to bind, as it
.were, her marvelous voice. But it seemed as if
the full restoration had come suddenly; the
bonds that had been growing looser were torn
away at once and her voice soared out like a
bird suddenly let loose from its cage and rejoic
ing in its freedom. So, she sang in triumph,
her face radiant in the dusky light. When she
had finished she stood trembling with joy.
‘Brava,’ cried a voice at a little distance, and
turning quickly she saw Guy Laurence.
‘Forgive my intrusion and my involuntary
applause,’ he said, approaching her. ‘Your
voice must be my excuse. It drew me here like
a silver chord, and the applause burst out in
spite of myself. Your voice is divine, it is glo
rious ! Why have I never heard yon sing before ?’
‘Oh ! she said, her heart so overflowing with
happiness she could not keep silent, ‘I have but
just recovered my lost gift; God has given it
back to me in answer to my prayer. It was my
comfort, my one hope in days past; then tbe
night of despair came to me, my voice was lost.
I have recovered it, and I see a ray of dawn
through my life’s darkness. Don’t wonder at
my raphsody; if you knew all, you would not
blame me.’
‘Will you not tell me something of your life ?’
he asked, as they walked home in the soft twi
light.
.She told him of her departure for Italy, her
hard study under the old master, her kind
friends, her wonderful success, and then the
Budden failure of her voice while she sang upon
the heights of the Alps. She did not speak of
her short, brilliant career on the stage, but he
half suspected it. He listened to her with deep
interest, and she felt that she possessed his true
sympathy.
They had nearly reached the house before he
said:
‘Ah ! I had forgotten to tell you that Eugene is
waiting for you at the house. He did not know I
had slipped away to find you. He found the
box to-day, with the other batch of paintings
that I shipped him from New York. It had
been stored in the ware-house here with some
merchant’s goods. I was afraid it was lost, it
has been so long in coming to iight; and there
is a picture among the rest that I would not
take thousands ot dollars for if it were mine,
because—well, it is the picture I told you of, the
Madonna that bears such a striking resemblance
to yourself -that is yourself in fact, for you
must have sat as the model. No painter could
have imagined anything like it—the expression,
the very carriage of head and turn of chin and
cheek. Y'ou remember I spoke to you of it at
our first meeting; it struck me so forcibly at
once—the likeness of the picture to you—I
could not believe but it must be a portrait.’
‘I think it may be,’ Eloise answered, almost
sure it was a copy of the Madonna of Julius
Marehmont, for which he had pursuaded her to
sit as a model. She knew he intended copying
the picture; he had declared his intention of
never parting with the original.
ptThey were near the house, they saw Eugene
watching them from the veranda. He looked
annoyed as they entered, and said with a tone
and look of sarcasm.
‘You are fond ot late and long walks, I see,
and you like to loiter when you have good com
pany.’
‘I went in search of her and found her oc the
sea beach, solitary and forlorn,’Guy said, laugh
ing, seeing that a flush of displeasure had risen
to Eloise’s fuce, revealed by the rays of the new
ly lighted hall lamp that were streaming oat
into the yet rosy twilight
‘You remedied the solitariness and cheered the
fair lady so effectually that yon both seemed to
have forgotten that other individuals might have
an existence,’ Eugene said, still sneering. ‘I
had intended to have yon go np to the hotel
with me and look at the pictures, but it i3 too
late for them to be seen.’
‘To-morrow will do,’ suggested Guy.
‘No, I have sent them on borne.’
‘I am very sorry. I was anxious for Miss En
nis to see the picture that so much resembles
her. She thinks it may be a portrait.’
‘Is that so ?’ be asked, turning to Eloise.
‘Yes; I once sat as a model to a painter in
Rome—a young artist who
are too sanguine. I can block yonr path every
where. Money and influence will do it.’
‘I defy you.’
‘Beware. You are not free, by any mean s.
You shall teel my hand wherever you turn, un
less,’ he said,sinking his voice and coming close
to her, ‘unless you allow my judgement to con
trol you—give this proud, way ward nature whol
ly into my keeping, and then you will find me
the devoted lover, not the stern arbiter. Then
your life shall be sheltered and made beautiful
with luxury and absence of all care.’ He would
have taken her hand and drawn her to him in the
shadow of the vines, but she shrank back and
motioned him imperatively away.
[to be continued.]
How Frank Farrel Buried An
other Man’s wife.
Castle and Cabin;
-OR.-
Lord Edwin’s Vow.
A TALE OF ENGLAND AND THE GREAT WEST
BX C. H. WEBSTEB.
‘I’ll warrant me he was young, and that he
painted con a more,' Eugene said with a short,
scornful laugh.
He was in a vexed mood. In truth, he was
jealous ot Eloise. He could not bear to see her
show any favor to others, yet he had not manli
ness and honor enough to say, ‘Be wholly mine.’
Had it been in days of bandits and feudal cas
tles and lawless force, he would have carried
her off as a prize to some lonely tower, where
he would have kept her concealed from every
eye knt bis own, and made himself her master,
sonl and body.
•I am very sorry I couldn’t Lave seen the pic
tnre,’ Eloise said, dreamily.
•You can see it, by going out to Ocean View
to-morrow,’ he answered, quickly. ‘Will you
go with me? I will drive you out to-morrow
with great pleasure.’
‘Thank you. It is out of my power to go,’ she
returned courteously but firmly.
‘Miss Ennis. I do wish yon would go,’ inter
posed Guy. ‘Ocean View is a modern paradise,
beautiful as one can imagine,with fruit, flowers,
fountains, pictures, books and a grand piano
waiting for your hand to wake its music. How
your glorious voice would ring throngh the
great rooms. Oh! Eugene, you did not tell me
what a voice your belle cousine possessed. I
beard it this evening for tbe first time; I never
shall forget it.’
‘She told me ske had lost her voice,’ Eugene
said, snspiciously, with a glance at Eloise.
‘I have recovered it,’ she answered simply.
‘Ah! yon did not think it worth while' to tell
me.’
‘Yon should hear her sing a grand, solemn an
them. It suits her voice; 1 shall persuade her
to sing in tbe Catholic Church to-morrow. I
know she will not refuse my ‘pleading,’ Guy
said, looking tenderly at Eloise.
‘The moon is rising,’ Engene said, pointing
to the full moon whose disc was visible at the
rim of the horizon. ‘I most go borne to-night.
Come Guy, let us make oar adieux.’
The yoang man wonld evidently fain have
lingered, but Eugene Bertram’s voice always
commanded obedience. He shook hands with
Eloise, holding her white fingers in his a little
longer than courtesy enjoined. Eugene said
good-bye, and ran down the gravel walk.
•I have left my riding whip,’ he said to Guy,
as they reached the gate. He went back for the
article purposely left, and took ocoasion to go
np to Eloise and say to her:
•Yon surely will not sing in the church ?’
•Why not ?'she asked.
'Because there may be those present who will
recognize yon. Yon agreed with me that it was
best to keep secluded for a while longer.’
‘I allowed you to say so and to diqtate my ac
tions, as I have always done—bat as I am de
termined to do no longer—I am from tnis hour
mistress of my fate.’
•Because you recovered your voice ? Ah, yoa
An incident, serious in itself, though at the
same time laughingly lndicrous, occurred a few
days since in New Orleans. There lived in Ba-
ronne street, a poor but industrious couple—
Frank Farrel and his wife Mary. If Frank were
to die, his excessive wealth, at least, would not
preclude the possibillity of his admittance in to
the place reserved for the elect. Frank is poor,
but has a wife whom he loves—one who loves
him; a home where contentment is a permanent
lodger, and habits of industry, which secure
health and afford him the means to supply his
wants, which are but few He follows the
business of dyeing—renovating old garments—
or, in other words, like a practical moralist, im
proving the current generation; in fact, he dyes
to live. Though a man of known veracity, he
gives a coloring to almost every thing he touch
es; and although of strictly abstemious habits,
he is frequently seen blue.
Not long since, Mary took the yellow fever,
and Frank being strongly advised to send her
to one of the pay-wards of the Charity Hospital,
where she would have the best advice and med
ical attendance,—he did so. For two days, on
each of which he called to see her several times;
her case continued to be a dangerous one, and
Frank remained in a state of suspense, lest she
whom he so dearly loved, should pass out of
existence. On the night of the second day, the
physician thought he saw improvement, as if
the crisis of the case had been past, and this
was an announcement which Frank hailed with
all the gratification inspired by sincere affec
tion. He went borne to his humble residence,
and that night had pleasurable and bright
dreams about Mary, happy days and a better
fortune.
Early in the morning a message came to him
from the hospital that Mary was dead—that she
died at one o’clock in the morning—that hor
corpse was in the dead house, and If it was not
taken away before the doctors came, they would
dissect it. This sad news froze for a moment the
life’s current in Frank’s heart, but the idea of
her body, instead of being buried whore hc-
could make periodical pilgriinag«s to it, and
plaDt flowers around it, being snhj“cted to the
scalpel of the unfeeling surgeon, again set it in
rapid motion. He hurried out to the under
taker’s, procured a heyse and cofiin, went di
rectly to the dead-house, where ho found the
corpse of a female called Mrs. Farrel, which he
quickly took and interred.
Four ’days after these events, about sun-down
one evening, while yet the reflection of its light
lingered in the western horizon, as Frank sat
solitary and alone in his little shop, chewing tbe
cud of bitter reflection, a female, form darkened
the door and entered. As she said in a teeble
voice and reproachful tone :
‘Ah Frank ac-ushla, it’s little I thought you
would serve me so. You never called for the
last four days to see I was dead or alive.’
O’u, the Cross Xf Cnrisif ffi&tJWTXlKl" saW'Tta'DET'
‘the Lord betnne us and harm ! What are you?
or are you Mary’s ghost? If you are, I com
mand you, in the name of the Father, Son and
Holy Ghost, to do me neither hurt nor harm,
for it’s neither I d do you, if you wor alive to
morrow.’
‘And Frank, avic,’ said Mary and nobody else
—‘sure I'm alive, though in truth it seems that
it’s dead I might be, for all you care about
me.’
‘You’re not alive, Mary,’ said Frank. ‘How
could you be, when I buried you on Friday last.
You know the love I always had for you when
you wor alive; bull don’t think it’s traytin’ me
dacent to be appearin’ to me now that you’re
dead. If anything throubles yonr sowl, say so,
and I’ll get as many masses sed as’ll remove
it.’
‘Oh, Frank, agra,’ said Mary, ‘you’re losin’
your senses; I’d ruther ye’d get me a cup of tay
now, to rouse me poor wake heart, than any
thing else. Yon see there’s not an ounce of
flesh on me poor bones.’
‘Why,’ said Frank, ‘have you any bones at all?
Be gar, I thought you wor a spirit come to
haunt me. Let me see—(he feels her hand)—
be goxty, you’re not a spirit, but Mary, sure
enough, I believe. But stay till I light tbe caD-
dle.’ (He lights it, and is sure of her identity.'*
•Well, bow in the world did ye git out of the
grave, Maay ? Will you tell me that! for I fas
tened you down well, for fear of them thievin’
sack’em ups.’
‘Why, you’re dray min’, Frank,’ said Mary; ‘I
wasn’t in the grave at all. I have just left the
Charity Hospital, and—’
The entrance of two tnen prevented her pro
ceeding, one of whom passionately inquired:
‘Is your name Farrel ?’
‘Yes,’said Frank, ‘it is, summer and winther.
May I be so bowld as to ask what’s your busi
ness with me ?’
*1 want to know,’ said the man, ‘what you did
with my wife. If you have sold her to the doc
tors, or did anything of that kind, I’ll make it a
sore business to yon.’
‘Your wife!’ said Frank in suspense: ‘what
wife?
‘Why my wife,’ said the starnger, ‘whose
body yon took from the Charity Hospital on Fri
day morning, as I am told yon did.’
' ‘And was that yonr wife? said Frank.
‘She wasn’t anybody else’s,’ said the stran
ger.
‘Be gor, thin, I buried her dayoint for you,’
said Frank. ‘And it wasn’t you, Mary, snre
enough,’ he added.
‘Indeed, then, it wasn’t,’ said Mary.
•And you’re no ghost ? said Frank. ‘Well, I
see it all now. I mistook another daycint wo
man—this jintleman’s wife—for yon, because
they tould me you wor dead, and that she was
Mrs. Farrel.’
•So she was,’ said the stranger, ‘and my wife,
not yours.’
Oor readers by this time know the origin of
this budget of blunders. There were two Mrs.
Farrels admitted as yellow fever patients into
the hospital. Frank buried one of them, believ
ing it was his own Mary. It proved to be a
mistake of a morning.
CHAPTER XVIII.
NEW DIFFICULTIES.
It is not our intention to attempt to portray
the surprisa and joy that fell upon the hearts of
the group in that little cabin by the waters of
the Platte River; for the task would be a fruitless
one.
Suffice it when, a little later, Sir Hugh re
turned with Vance Tarbell, whom Hugh had
been out to seek, the parentage of his betrothed
was imparted to him, and he was admitted to a
share in the general surprise and joy.
But shortly a cloud crept over his handsome
face, and a gloom fell on his usually cheerful
mien, for in this change which had come over
Lucy’s prospects, he saw that there was a great
gulf of social positon between them ; and then,
as Vance was not the man to keep aught back,
he said at once, with noble frankness:
‘Lucy, this night has brought strange revela
tions to ns both. You are now the mistress of a
title, a princely income, and a home beyond the
sea, if you choose to ‘seek it; and though I
rejoice that my good name has been cleared
from blot, yet I cannot, help seeing that it is no
mate for your noble on4; and so, Lucy, though
it cost me the bitterest pang I ever knew, I will
release yon, if you desire it.’
‘Vance, iell me, if you can, in what respect am
I better now than I was an hour ago, before I
knew this strange revelation? Nay, I am werse,
if for a moment I should cherish the thought of
what you propose. All the castles in England
would not console me for the loss of the cabin-
home shared by you; and though I shall love
my new-found brother very dearly, he surely
will not wish to deprive me of you!’ said the
noble girl, extending one hand to Lord Edwia
and the other to her lover.
‘No, dear Lucy, I am not so selfish as that;
only promise to admit me to your happiness by
sharing the casile with me, as I have shared
your cabin !’ and he mined their hands between
his cwn.
And there was not a dry eye in the little keep
ing-room while this affecting episode was being
enacted there.
Two weeks later, Sir Hugh and Lord Edwin
left the settlement, after the marriage of Vance
Tarbell and the Lady Lucy had been solemn
ized—while at the same time, David Brandt and
his blue-eyed, brown-haired betrothed were
united by the good minister who had been
summoned from the nearest fort od the river
below: and when they separated, it was with the
understanding that, in the early summer, the
Lady Lucy and her husband should bo rejoined
by them, and the party should then set out for
n i/wntmotT tr» Voir Vnrlr frnm tuViinh rifirt fVinu
brother to me, and he loves the pretty Nono;
besides, I do like my white friend much I’ said
Wind-Flower, with crimsoning cheeks and tear
ful eyes as she closed her artless recital.
Lord Edwin had listened with startled mien
ftDd flushed countenance; and when she closed,
he said, with suppressed eagerness :
‘Wind-Flower, have you any token of yonr
former home—I mean, anything you wore away
to the Pawnees, either clothing or adorn
ments? '
‘Only this—my Pawnee father gave it to
me,’ and the girl unclasped a gold chain that
just spanned her slender throat, and laid it in
his hand.
The youth eagerly caught it up, and examin
ed it with scrutinizing eje; and upon the clasp
be deciphered, in almost illegible letters, so
tiny in their curving it almost needed a glass to
discern them, the name—
‘HorteDSe !’
•It is a wonderful coincidence !’ he murmur
ed. ‘Wind-Flower, do you know that you are
no Indian girl, but have white blood in your
veins ? And I will not rest till I have unravell
ed the secret of yonr birth. Yon shall never
marry Eagle Piurne, for you are my own prom
ised wife; and when I go from the Pawnee vil
lage, I will not leave you behind. Now, I will
visit the old chief, and see if I cannot recon
cile him to receive Nono as his daughter, and
also learn all he can impart concerning your
parentage.’ And the pair returned to the village,
whither Sir Hugh had preceeded them.
And this was the secret little Nono had learn
ed from her mother MogaUDa, but was prevent
ed from imparting to the fur dealer, Vance Tar
bell, that morning when he was abput departing
from the Pawnee village on bis homeward route.
Vance wonld soon hear it, now, from his wife’s
brother's lips.
CHAPTER XIX.
l#t merchant—‘Yes, I’m off to Paris to-morrow
for a month's enjoyment.’ 21 merchant—‘How
does Mrs. Jones like the notion of a foreign
land?’ 1st merchant—‘Mrs. Jones? Why, I
told you she was not going.’ 2d merohant—‘No,
really, you had not mentioned her name. ’ 1st
merohant—‘Bat didn,t I say I was going for a
month’s enjoyment? ~ -
There are more poor houses oonstructed from
tbe ‘bricks in men’s hats’ than from any other
malarial
If Wade Hampton were a Republican, Massa
chusetts might hare recognized South Carolina
as a sister State.
a journey to New York, from which port they
would sail for England.
Meantime Lord Edwin, still fiithful to his at
tachment for Wind Flower, had won over Sir
Hugh to his plan—viz: to declare his love, and
if his suit was favorably received, to win the
consent of the old chief to their engagement,
with a view to marriage when he should attain
his majoritv and the management of his estates.
And meantime, Lord Edwin had conceived the
commendable idea of placing his beautiful wild-
wood prize at some boardiDg-school where she
might acquire that education which would fit
'her fofffceTTuiuiuTUtilW^-sini when ikertmet-
vening years had elapsed, and he was twenty-
one, he would come to .bear home the bride.
It was a romantic scheme in truth, and
yet underneath it lay the solid foundations of
extreme probability; for Lord Edwin, though he
had asked no promise, knew that the beautiful
girl’s heart was all his own, and he showed no
small knowledge of human nature—alike in
white and red man—when he calculated that the
old Indian chief would not refuse so brilliant an
allianoe. For, with his assurance of his own
equal right with his half-sister Lucy to the es
tates of Stanhope, had vanished all his morbid
plans of burying himself in the wilderness, an
exile from his native land. Life amid his own
boyhood home, with Wind-Flower, beautiful,
graceful and educated, seemed a fair vision
stretching out its hands alluringly from his fu
ture.
And so, ardent with hope and anticipation,
he again took up his course fofr the Pawnee vill
age; while poor little Wind-Flower, who had
imagined herself deserted by the handsome
young English youth, began to despair of his
coming.
Spring had nearly passed, for the last week iu
the bright May month was counting out its days,
when our travellers paused at the entrance of
the Pawnee village. The rays of the setting
snn were falling aslant, like goldon arrows,
across the prairie they had traversed, whoso
emerald billows rolled away into the seemingly
illimitable distance. Summer warmth and
brightness was in the air; and birds of bril
liant plumage were heating their wings on their
homeward flights to the nests in tall, glossy
oak boughs, or in the prairie grass, or by some
reedy creek. Summer flqyers, too, were all in
bloom—the stately Indian warrior, with its red,
flame-colored tufts, like the gaily-dyed feathers
that adorn the scalp locks of some plumed and
painted brave; and the graceful ‘shooting star,’
whose blossoms are more perfect in their deli
cate coloring than many a rare exotic in choice
ly kept parterres, crowned their long, erect,
slender stems in most l$prish profusion.
So always—foreshadowed by warm skies, an
emerald brightness to the prairie carpet, and a
wealth of wild-wood blossoms whose wondrous
beauty shames the growth of our cultivated gar
dens of the East—the spring lapses by, and
summer comes to the beautiful western land.
On the borders of the Pawnee village, j ust as
they were entering a noble belt of tall syc*
mores, our travellers came face to face with
Wind-Flower, whose brown hands were filled
with the splendid blossoms of tbe forest. IT stor
ing a cry of joy, she dropped her flowers to the
mossy earth; and in another moment the lovers
were alone, for Sir Hugh had considerately
walked onward in the path, and left them to
each other's society.
Many minutes had not elapsed, ere the impul
sive youth had unfolded his love to the maiden
at his side, also the errand which took him
thither; but now it was poor Wind-Flower's
tarn to tremble and grow pale, and sob ont her
happiness on his Bhoulder. For unto them, as
to other lovers, had oome the shadow of diffi
culty; and it was a strange revelation which
Lord Edwin now heard from the girl's lips.
Daring his absenoe from the village, Wind-
Flower had been summoned into the presence
of the old chief, and told that she was not his
daughter, but had been given him, when an in
fant, by a white ranchero from the country away
to the South—that old Moganna had nursed her
for a while, when the old chief; won by -her art
less innocence and beauty, had decidetffh adopt
her as his own child—and the secret of her birth
had been shared only by himself, Moganna, and
young Eagle Plume till now. when he had re
vealed it to her, and bade her prepare to beoome
the squaw of bia ton, to whom he had also im
parted his commands.
'Bat I do not Iots Eagle Plume, for he is only
FINALE.
The moist warm Eugiish summer was draw
ing to a clu.se, when the Lady Amelia Suther
land grew impatient to welcome the return of her
affianced and his cousin. Letters written early
in the preceding Spring had appointed August
as the period when they should come back to
their native land; and later missives had con
firmed Sir Hugh’s decision, adding ‘that they
should bring friends with them, whom, he was
very sure, she wonld gladly welcome for the
sake of his young relative.’ Bat no explanation
was given, as to who these new found friends
were; hence the lady’s curiosity was kept on the
rack.
‘I am sure I cannot concieve who Sir Hugh
and Lord Edwin are to bring home with them,
Aunt Harriet!’ she said; ‘but I am going down
to my estate in Hampshire to receive them
there. It is so lovely there in summer; and
there is plenty of game in the park and pre
serves. Probably these are some American gen
tleman, whose acquaintance they are pleased
with, and have urged to visit England. I shall
keep them at my manorhouse awhile, before Sir
Hugh and Lord Edwin take them off to Raleigh
Hall and Stanhope Castle; and yon must accom
pany me to Hampshire, to assist in doing the
honors, Aunt Harriet, while dear Madame de
Tremaine must be our guest.’
And so, accompanied by the Duchess Argyle,
and the lovely French lady whose companion
ship had become so necessary to their home en
joyment the preceding winter, the Lady Amelia
left London at the close of the season, and went
down to her grand old me&orial estate, which
Stood, amoDg its parks and fbiests, first among
the ‘stately homes of England’ o’er all the pleas
ant land.
Decry the blood that ‘comes down from the
Oonqmeror’ and noble rtrttk and titles as we
"oosi ccnlj help Ac
knowledging—as the Lady Amelia did, when
she set foot on her own patrimonial acres-that
it was a pleasant thing to be the lady of that
grand estate, adored by her prosperous tenan
try, and betrothed to the gallant, high-minded
Eugiish gentleman, who was hastening ‘from
overseas’ to clasp her white hand in his warm
embrace tbe hand which she had promised to
bestow on him the ensuing autumn at the al
tar. Therefore, Lady Amelia may well be par
doned the impatience which tilled her heart, as
day by day she awaited the coming of her lover.
Sleantime, during all those beautiful sum
mer months at the Hampshire manor-house, the
sad, sweet-voiced French lady had been gath
ering a happiness, for which she could not ac
count, into her heart. Each morning she arose
with a straDge feeling which she could not de
fine, permeating her whole beiDg; each night
she retired to rest in her stately wainscotted
chamber, with a portion of her load of sorrow
lifted from her sonl. It was as if, daily, the
burden she had carried many yeais, was fading
away—dissolving in the foreshadowing rays of
some coming joy, that was soon to burst, fall
orbed upon her being. Account for these s^n!
sations, or define her feelings, she could not*
and yet a soft, sweet serenity gradually enfold
ed her, and the old sad look, so like tbe an
guish of the Mater Dolorosa, day by was swept
out of her large, brown, melancholy eyes.
And strange-yet not strange, lor this was
but the prescience of her coming revelation —
Madame was calmest and less sad when she
stood—as had been her wont ever since she
came to Sutherland manor-house—before the
portrait of a beautiful Indian girl her gifted
young hostess had reproduced from the hastily-
sketched likeness Sir Hugh’s letter had enclos
ed, and ’gjhich now hung upon the wall of the
long drawing-room beside the other pictures
there.
Was there no prophecy to the fascinated wo
man who lingered for hoars before that portrait,
drinking in the gaze of the lambent browD eyes
and the arch smile of the exquisitly-moulded
red li ps—that she was gazing on the face of her
elild ?
Afterwards,when all was madeolear to her,she
understood the magnetism that had enchained
her there.
The last week of August was fading when the
steamer Arago arrived at Liverpool and within
twenty>fonr hoars a telegram for the Lady
Amelia was despatched to the station nearest
Sunderland manor-house, and received by* its
waiting mistress.
‘They will be here day after to-morrow, Aunt
Harriet!’ was her delighted announcment,* as
she hurried to the Duchess.
Slowly tbe intervening time passed by to.ihe
impatient Lady Amelia; and at the close of the
day designated, the group at the hall door saw
the carriage, which had been sent over to the
station for them, come swiftly up the noble av
enue that led from the distant turnpike to the
manor-hoase.
•They are coming—but how strange, Aunt
Harriet! There are ladieB of the party, and
Hngh ought to have apprised me of their visit,’
said the young hostess, advancing to meet them
down the broad gray stone steps. In another
moment her hand was clasped in Sir Hugh’s,
followed by the friendly pressure of Lord Ed
win’s, and then she turned to greet a young
man of handsome, intelligent faee, and a beau
tiful, blue-eyed lady, who were presented as
•their American friends, Mr. and Mrs. Tarbell’
—for Lujy had stipulated that she was to wear
no title, but instead, her plain Republican
name daring this visit.
And then with! a glance of wonder, Lady
Amelia turned to take the band of a wondering,
lovely maiden of tender years, who stood with
downcast eyes veiled by long black silken lash
es, and a tide of crimson mantling her soft cheek
-j« sweet, graceful, shy, 1rlld*W<>od flower, trans
planted from far western forests to this stately
ancestral English home of culture and refine
ment—ths'betrothed of the noble voung English
man, M ho led her forward to Sir Hugh Raleigh’s
affianced—his own beautiful little Wind-flower.
With the perfect breeding of a lady, tbe Lady
Amelia led the way to the daawing-room, but a
tide of wild wonder was surging through her
mind, and that evening—wheD the party return
ed to the drawing room from the old oaken hall,
where supper had been served by the gray
headed butler, whose life and the life of his an
cestors before him, had been passed in the ser
vice of the Sunderlands Sir Hugh drew her
aside and related the startling story of the dis
coveries unveiled by their journey'to America.
‘And Lord Edwin insists that his new-found
sister shall remain with her husband, to share
Stanhope Castle with him, but it is more than
probable that they will return, altera visit in
England, to their own country again, where the
Lady Lncy—or Mrs. Tarbell, as she prefers to
be called—will feel more at home than here.
And I cannot help thinking she is right; for
America, end especially that new portion lying
beyond the mighty Mississippi, holds her child
ren to her ample bosom with a peculiar lovejand
I know no young man to-day mere respected
than Vance Tarbbll, or who bids fairer, ten years
hence, to receive the highest honors his district
can show him, viz: to send him to represent
their rights in the political congress of their
capitol. Believe me Amelia, my friend does
not need the wealth which will now accrue to
him from his wife's estates, nor her noble name
to bolster him on the route to fame and fortune.
‘But what do you tbink of Lord Elwin’s lit
tle Wild-wood blossom, dear Amelia? Y’ou
haven’t expressed your opinion of this romantic
attachment, nor uttered a word in praise of her
unique beauty,’ he said.
‘I have not, ’tis because 1 have not yet done
wondering at it, Hugh,’ she replied, srnilinglv.
‘But come with me, and I will show you that
her face is no new study to me !’and*she led
him up to the picture in a recess id alcove of the
apartment, unmindful, in her absorption in
Lis society, that two others stood there before it.
‘Why, this is you, Wind-Fiower!’ said Sir
Hugh, turning in delighted surprise from the
portrait to the young girl who stood shrinking
against the wo.ll, half hidden in ths folds of a
damask curtain, looking intently upon the pic
ture with a gaze of wondnr in her childish eyes.
•Like has sought like, I see,’ he said, with a
smile; then turning to another, who occupied
the alcove, he asked:
‘Ana you also think it a perfect likeness of
our litl!e wild-wood friend,Madam La Marquise ?
‘Wonderful! wonderful!’ replied the lady,
fixing her gaze now on the portrait then cn the
girl, whoever, under the magnetism of her dark,
sad eyes, crept nearer and nearer to her side,
till she had slid her tiny hand in hers and now
stood, her blown eyes fixed absorbingly on her
face with a strange look of childish taiiu and
devotion— ‘and what is more wondrous still,
never, until this hour, when I have the swe-t,
living face of this girl before my eyes, never
did I see that such might have been my own
portrait when young as she. I cannot ex
plain it, but there is a wild, strange pulling at
my heart-strings, as though the long-mourned
and dead had come to life before me. Beauti
ful child you have come out of that far western
land to cheat me with a delusion of my loved
and lost Hortense ! ’ and quite carried out of
herself by her uncontrollable emotions—let us
write instincts, rather—Madame de Tremaine
gathered Wind-Flower to her heart, and press
ed a rain of kisses, mingled with tears, upon her
young brow
But the same instinct which bad drawn the
sad-3yed French lady to the dusky forest reared
girihad also impelled Wind-Fiower to receive
viriri?euilr-.ee; yet in an instant she lifted her
graceful head from Malame’s bosom, and, with
a perplexed look, quietly unclasped the small
gold chain whose tiny links just spanned her
throat—the same chain her baby neck had worn
when she had been given, with a handful of
Spanish gold, to the old Pawnee chieftain—
and, pointing to the name faintly graven on the
clasp, she laid the bauble in the lady’s hand.
‘Ah Mon Dieu ‘Hortense /’ My baby's chain !
What does this mean?’ and Madame uttered
shriek after shriek, putting her hand to her fore
head; then, even before Lord Edwin, who, in
company with the duchess Argyie, had just en
tered the alcove, with an eager couctenanc
before Lord E lwin spoke, she had again clasped
the young girl to her bosom in that long cling
ing embrace.
‘It means, Madame La Marquise de Tremaine,
that I was struck by the wonderful resemblance
I perceived between Wind-Flower and yourself
when I first entered Lady Amelia’s home; and
I have just heard the story of your sorrow from
the Duchess’ lips, and I am convinced that my
betrothed—stolen from her cradle, when a six
months’ old babe, by a Spaniard named Roder-
ique de Avila, and given to a kind old Indian
cnieftain, who reared her as his own child—my
betrothed, my darling Wind-Fiower, is your
daughter!’
‘Yes, my child, my child ! My own Hortense!’
echoed the sobbing marquise, straining the
beautiful girl to her breast. 'That was the rea
son why 1 felt drawn towards her. My Hor
tense, my child !’
We have little more to add; for when the
drama is fulfilled the curtain falls.
Four years later, a brilliant and educated
French belle—the beautiful Hortense de Tre
maine—left the Parisian convent school where
she had graduated; and, three months after
wards, was presented at the queen’s drawing
room as the Lady Stanhope, matronized at the
English court by the Countess of Rileigh and
the Duchess of Argyle.
And at a muen earlier date, a dark-eyed Mex
ican woman, who had vowed never to puzzle her
brain with lovers or husbands, dandled Spanish
Miguel’s child upon her knee in the wayside
ranche of western Texas; while the pretty Paw
nee Nono spread tbe otter skin couch for her
handsome Eagle Plume when he came home
weary to his lodge.
And in the thriving settlement beyond the
Missouri’s waters—in the home where love
dwells hand-in-hand with affluent plenty—sur
rounded by a band of children, with the blue
of the prairie violet in their eye9 and the bound
ing health of the free West in their veins—Vance
Tarbell lives today, rising to the highest hon
ors of our land; while tbe handsome matron at
his side, content with the republican appliances
of her maternal land, never looks across the At
lantic with a sigh for other soenes, nor regrets
that for the western cabin she resigned her
share in the proud old English castle that fell
to her inheritance with the fnlfillment of Lord
Edwin’s Vow.
Seventy tons of A. T. Stewart’s monument
have been shipped to Garden City. There is to
be $40,000 worth of marble to be consumed in
this structure.
Reuben Davis, a brother of Jefierson Davis,
has been nominated for Congress by the Green
back men in the First Congressional District of
Mississippi.
The public debt was reduced rising six mill
ions daring the last month. It now stands at
$2,059,105,020 07. We should all feel better
about it if that odd seven oents were paid off.
A little gum camphor placed in the pillow-
casea or about the bed is said to be effective in
keeping away that omnipresent local pest, thej
busy, buzzing mosquitoes, It is easily tried. 1