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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 She felt it almost as a di rect answer to her prayer—this restoration of the gift that had been withdrawn from her.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