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THE SMART COUNTRY GIRL.
A Story of the Yorih Georgia Mountains.
BY W. A. TOB.
CHAPIER in.
Henry Crawford was troubled. The jealous,
envious diap. s:tion betrayed by bis luhy-iove
war an nn o 'ke.i-lcr revelation to him. Ee had
thought lit-r as lovely in mind as in person; he
had confidently counted upon her sympathy
aud assistance in his wish to put this bright
mountain girl in a way to obtain some of the ed
ucation and polish she evidently longed for and
could obtain with but little help. The bitterly
contemptuous way in which she spoke of the
girl shocked him. She sulked and pouted up
to the time she went away. Tnen an invitation
she received from f-n aristocratic fiiend to ac
me st not he disloyal even in thought to the I with eager baste she read the account of the dm- j "is
woman ho bad promised to make his wife. He I astrous battle of Chanci-Horsville. Her eye cure- | cess f •
tutiful smile was reflected upon the I’rin-
the tree, she gave way to the first great sorrow
comjauy her to a fashionable watering place put i of her life and sobbed convulsively—while she
her in a good humor. She teased Henry to go ; murmured, ‘Oh God protect him, God bless
My friend, my dear good
>h her lit'le sun browned hand and held it j fully pursued the long list of killed, his name
was not there; with eagerness she ran through
the column of wounded, his name was there,
yet nothing definite. Continuing hoi search,
she was attracted by this local notice:
‘‘Dangerously, perhaps fatally wounded.
‘ With painful regret, we learn that Captain
Henry Crawford, nephew of our esteemed fel
low citizen, John H. Cranford, Esq., is now ly
ing in the Richmond Hospital, dangerously, if
not fataily wounded. While leading bis Com-
„ . pany in the charge upon the enemy, he fell,
look full of sorrow and of a tenderness that j \y e t rUf q his conoition is not such as has been
flooded his heart tumultuously when he saw i reported ”
that her eyes were brimming with tears she did j N ' read and re . read this paragraph. She
! her best to restrain, and that she was P* 1 ®, 8 ® suppressed the cry of anguish until she was
I death in the <fiforts to keep uown the gnei that | ftlo ^ Then wriu ^ Eg her h hands, Bbs crie d:
swelied her heart. ...., ‘God, be merciful! Oh, God! spare his life.
So they parted and she watched him till horse Let jJ. ljve f()r another all l aHk ‘ is that he may
and rider disappeared down the rugged mono- t di 0h , j mUHt se9 him ; I must go to
tain way, then throwing herself on her knees ; j. ,
beside ‘the great mossy boulder at the foot of .^ancy, my child, what ails you?’ cried her
mother, meeting her at the door,
while he said words of comfort and encourage
ment, told her she must keep a journal for him
to see when he next visited the mountains; must
set down in it all he ri x.ieriences as a school
maam, jot down her criticisms on tbe books
of which he should send her a box fall. He
dared not a?k her to write to him; though the
wish to do so was in his heart. But he put
away temptation, and parted from her under
‘he great, gold-tinged chestnut with only a
warm pressuio of the hand aud a long,lingering
with Lee, but he declared truly that watering , and spare him.
places were a bore to him, and his uncle protest- j friend.’
ed against his leaving the mountains, when he
was j nst beginning to learn the ways of the game
and to get rosy and strong through the pure
bracing air and crystal water. A second letter
from her fashionable friend containing the inti
mation that her party to the .Springs would in
clude a most eligible ‘catch’—a young man, rich,
Miss St. Clair Dever shed such tears for her
lover—not even when two months afterwards he
rode away to the army at the head of his com
pany and she watched him from her window.
She pnt her lacs handkerchief to her eyes to
wipe away a tear or two, and then turned off
and looked in tbe glass to see if her eyes were
Oh, mother ! our triend, Henry Crawford is
dangerously, perhaps fatally wounded. I must
go to him !’
‘What Nancy ! you go away to Richmond by
yourself! Why, child, you have lost your
senses.’
•Mother he is my friend, my generous, kind
friend, and if I live* I will render him all the
aid in my power.’
(TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.)
dashing, and a magnificent waltzer—quite reo- 'red, which she would not have them be for the
onoiled Mbs St Ciair to leaving her fiance in the j worid, since Col. Bliss would be calling in the
mountains. Anyhow, it was preposterous to hs j evening.
jealous of a ridiculous red-cheeked‘cracker’nam-! Very differen was it with the mountain girl,
ed Nancy Wiggins,who said *haint,and ‘we-uns.’ i The thought of Henry Crawford was with her
She went away, after being very sweet and ami- j every hour, influencing her life, stimulating
able for a whole day. She knew she-aoul l trust
iu Henry’s honor at any rate. He would never
be disloyal to his plighted word.
With a vaguely disappointed heart, Henry ful
filled his promise of again visiting Nancy aud
carrying her the boolt. H« spent the whole
forenoon at the little cottage, went with Nrucy
her to eonscieniions discharge of duty and to
forbearance and gentleness with those around
her. She studied assiduously through the
winter and spring. She had received the
promised box of books, and welcome as they
were, they were not examined until she had
read and re-read a little note that lay on top of
THE TAMING OF A GIRL.
BY HENRY ORLVILLK.
over her little flower yard, and to see her troops I them. Next fall tli6 people of the neighbor-
of pigeons and dommicks, helped gather the j hood prevailed upon her to teach their children,
butter beans, tomatoes and squashes for dinner, j A little rustic school house had been built
helped stiiug the snap-beans and shell the peas [ among the chesnuts, and here in September the
as be sat by Nancy in the little vine-shaded j brown eyed mountain maiden taught her pupils
porch adj scent to the kitchen. All his talk
was framed with the design of delicately stimu
lating the girl's intellect, enlarging the rauge of
her thoughts, and exciting yet more her ambi
tion to learn and to rise superior to her pre>-
mental condition. He watched her alterin'
and saw by the flash on her fair cheek an
light in her lovely hazel eyes that liis t£T ro
wers well seconded by her wonderfully ->p
mind.
He was not surprised when she asked Inn,
frankly, to point out her errors of speech. She
had read enough to know that she and her neigh
bors did speak Incorrectly, but it had been a
habit so long, it catue perfectly natural aud did
not jar upon her until she heard others convers
ing properly. He promised to correct her er
rors in speaking, pointed out a number of them,
and.ad vised her to read constantly an.l observe
the wording of colloquial sentences. With this
object ho brought her some of the best fictions
—Miss Muloek’s ‘John Halifax,’ Miss Austin’s
‘Emma,’ Miss Edgeworth’s works aud finally,
some of George Eliot's strong novels -Middle-
march’ was his choice as being most healthy.
She read these with the utmost avidity, aud fie
could see nn immediate improvement wrought
in her conversation, aDd in her style both if
thought and ex press'on.
‘Now we may try a little history,’ he said, and
brought her a volume of Mcaulay’s vivi d and
picturesque history of England. Nancy 's moth
er no longer opposed her becoming book-learned
and ‘proper talking.’ A conversation with Hen
ry had won her quite over to his way of think
ing, aud she began to be as noxious for her
daughter’s improvement as he was. She gave
Nancy every opportunity for study, took a small
girl into the bouse to help do the chores, and
allowed nothing to break in upon Nancy’s study
Lours, The girl’s progress was absolutely won
derful. It astonished her young teacher, who
came frequently and gave all the aid in his pow
er by suggestion or information. Her keen and
subtle questions, her rapid insight, the quick
ness with whioh she caught his ideas aud acquir
ed a more refined habit of thought and expres
sion amazed and delighted him. He did not
know how rapidly a bright,eager woman's intel
lect can absorb aud assimilate knowledge and re
ceive polish, especially when stimulated by the
praise and companionship of a man she admires
and esteems. After three months, Nancy’s best
friends would hardly have recognized in the
fair, graceful young lauy, with intelligence
beaming from her bright eyes aDd speaking from
her sweet lips, the pretty but ignorant and un
polished girl they had known a few months ago.
Even her features seemed more finely chiseled,
and her complexion glowing with health, was
pure and smooth as the petals of a flower. Hen
ry took great pride and pleasure in her prog
ress. ‘I have not wasted my sammt.-, 1 he
thought, ‘I have let in the light to this wild
rose, and I am more thau repaid.’
Had there been no danger to either in ibis
summer of frequent companionship, of kindly
interest, aid, and helpfulness on one side and
on the other frank reference and that looking
looking up to that men find so fascinating?
Henry had not thought it would prove danger
ous. At the outset he had told Nancy and her
mother of his relations with Miss St Ciare, and
he bad said to himseif that the growing interest
he took iu this girl was merely friendly, but as
tl time drew near for lam to go away, he real
ized that the separation was a pang he would be
glad to avert forever. He felt then that never
had tones been to him so full of music, never
Translated from the French, c or the
“Sunny South,"
ST I’BOF. OH A3, r. GAILMARD.
more industriously and wisely than they are
instructed in many a seminary with high- j
sounding Dame. In the great world below, the ]
fearful conflict went on amid blood and tears, i
famine ar.d fl tine. Only its echoes reached these
!s j lonely mountain heights. These echoes were
- : lull of pain and fear to Nancy. Eagerly she
iy { caught at every bit of intelligence that floated
j up from the world where the friend she loved
J so well was in constant danger.
The flowers faded, the dead leaves were fall-
[ ing from the forest trees, winter with its chilly
| winds was upon the earth, nature was wrapt in
! gloom. The very wiads appeared as if sor
rowing for the deeds of cruelty being enacted
upon the earth. These melancholy days, these
days of unrest, were indeed sorrowful ones to
our heroine, now immured in-doors. The in
activity forced upon her by the season, gave to
her mind little cessation from thoughts of the
absent one whose fate was wrapt in uncertainty.
At length, the glad spring appeared, the fields
and trees put on the garb of beauty, tbe birds
sang among the young foliage and, flowers gave
their fragrance to the breeze.
Again the duties of school claimed Nancy’s
attention she resumed her work with alacrity
for it brought some surcease of the heart-sick
ness that cones from hope deferred.
One afternoon in May as Nancy was wending
her way home, Richard Waters rode up, alighted
from his horse and leading the animal walked
besides her -
‘H ive you been riding far today? she asked, j f,qen"d
some-what embarrassed at the admiring glance
he dir<cted under her straw hat.
•Well; nigh on to fifteen miles: I reckon its
that from Kingston to here, and a body dont
feel peart art-er making the trip. Peers to me
Nancy you looks paler’n you used to. Tnis
here school keeping dont, gree with you sure.
Nancy what put it iu your head to worry your
life oat teaching them youugnus? you need’nt do
it no more if you’ll agree to take one scholar
for life. I cant talk like this ueffy of Squire
Crawford’s but if I do say it, I’ve got as loving a
heart as his'n. Wont you be my wife Nancy? I
disremember the time when I did’nt love you,
and the Lard knows I haint had no idee of ever
loving any body but you. Weuns has knowed
ono nother all our lives,and if I do say it,I haint
done any thing to make you shamed of loving
me.’
Nancy resisted the temptation to smile. Hon
est Dick was too much in earnest for her not to
feel thoroughly regretful that she must blight
his hopes.
‘I am sorry from my heart Dick, that I must
give you pam’, she said, ‘but I can never be
your wife. When i recall my childhood and your
tinny kind attentions and unfailing friendship,
I feel that I cannot bear to lose your esteem.
I trust we shall always be friends. 1 like you
very much, but 1 do not love yon enough to be
XXI.
Pierre took Sophie’s hands, trying to warm
them at his lips, but never thought of call
ing for assistance. After a short time, the Prin
cess came back to life.
They lie,’ repeated Pierre, when she opened
her eyes. ‘I never had any intercourse with such
company; I never gave any man the right of call
ing me a liar and an hypocrite.’
Sophie raised one hand which Pierre took in
his.
Did you not play a ?’ she asked, anxiously.
‘Ask me no questions,’ he said in despair, ‘bel
ieve me on my word. 1 cannot answer-’
‘But I want you to answer,’ she insisted in a
supplicating tone. ‘Did you gamble?
Pierre covered his face with both of his hands
to prevent his eyes from givingan answer. Sophie
opened his hands and forced him to look at her.
•It was not you who played !’ she exclaimed ex
ultantly. ‘It is some one else. Tell me it was not
you.’
Pierre could not lie.
‘No !’ said he, in an almost inaudible voice, ‘I
did not play.’
‘Ah ! said Sophie, giving him her hands, ‘I was
sure of it.’
For a while they both forgot the world. Hand
in hand, looking at each other, they lived the
happiest minute iff their lives.
‘Tell me all about it,’ said Sophie, seating her
self on the sofa, and leaving room at her side for
‘I cannot,’ said Mourief, ‘I promised not to say
a word ’
•But to me ! you did not promise not to tell it to
me. I assure you I shall not repeat a word of it
to anybody.’
‘Not even to Plato?’
‘Oh ! Plato is another myself.’
‘I promised,’ insisted Pierre.
‘Be it so !’ said Sophie. -I shall say nothing to
my brother, but he has a great deal of shrewd
ness, if he finds it out by guessing it will be
fault of mine. Now say what has happened.’
‘Day before yesterday,’ began Pierre, ‘just after
entering my room—coming from here—my servant
ushered a young officer newly arrived. lie is
only sixteen years and six months old, and comes
from the interior. Saint Petersburg’s life intoxic
ated him. No wonder. So, Wednesday he went
into the house you have been told about, and he
lost there in one night more than he can pay
in ten years. I had taken an interest in him—he is j bard against the steps.
•So you are not angry at me for the sorrow I in
flicted upon you!’
‘No,’ she answered, looking at him, ‘you have
proved yourself a man, Lt. Mourief, you can now
attempt, everything and hope for anything.
‘Anything?’he asked, holding her hand.
‘Anything,’ she repeated, and her face turned
crimson.
‘Well! as soon as I shall be out of this trouble I
shall ask you for something ’
‘Ask for it now ; I should prefer to grant it to
you while you are not quite innocent in the eyes
of the world.’
Pierre drew her into his arms and whispered
to her a few words, so low that nobody ever knew
what it was.
‘Yes !' she answered in a firm voice, ‘and I shall
be j rjud of it.’
lie pressed her to his heart and went to see
Plato.
When Mourief entered his friend’s room he was
holding his head proudly high, as a very happy
man, but Souvarof’s grave face brought him baek
to the reality of the situation. Iiis legs crossed
on each other, Plato, with his rigid countenance,
was a good representative ofauthority.
‘You have been gambling 1’ he said, severely.
Pierre nodded his head affirmatively. It is not
easy to lie when one is not used to it.
‘And you have lost!'
This exact repetition of the interrogatory he had
just passed through, incited him to laugh, but he
succeeded in keeping serious, and he only nodded
his head again.
‘You have lost more than you can pay,’ imper
turbably continued Sourof.
‘This last point is not yet proved,’ said Mourief,
‘I shall try my best. Can you lend me a few
thousands ?’ >
Plato, abashed, rose from his seat.
‘I!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, you. Be certain I will pay them back to
you. But if you have no money on hand, never
mind that.’
‘Is it possible!’ exclaimed Plato, scandalized,
‘you go to dishonest places, you disgrace our
uniform aud you lose in one night a ridiculous
sum ! You, my friend—our friend—whom 1 have
introduced to my family, you, whom 1 have treat
ed as—as a ’
‘As a brother,’ completed Mourief, ‘and I acted
the same with you.’
Completely put out by such an answer, Plato got
excited.
‘It becomes you, indeed, to be joking and to ask
to borrow money from me to pay what you
have so shamefully lost.’
‘Well,’said Mourief, philosophically, ‘it is not
on my enemies, if I had any—which , 1 hope, is not
the case—that I should call for help.’
Pierre had in his eyes such a joyous expression,
her face reflected such a completo want of regret,
in spite of all his efforts to show some, that Sourof
accumu ated reproach upon reproach. The Col
onel's anger, the name of the regiment, the oblig
atory discharge, the exile in the interior, the ne
cessity of paying by all means,—all that fell like
a shower bath on Mourief’s head. But the Lieu
tenant stood it all impassibly, only approving with
his head the most pathitic repro tones of his
friend's eloquence.
When Sourof stopped to take his breath—or
perhaps because he found no more to say—Pierre
rose and said ;
‘Y’ou are an excellent friend, you spake to me
as the voice of my conscience. 1 shall remember
it ail my life.’
‘What conclusion do you come to?’ asked Plato,
softene 1 by those friendly words.
T will hunt for money every where 1 think there
is a chance, since you refuse to lend me some,’
answered Mourief, radiantly.
The hand that Plato was extending to him fell
back to his side. Was that the only effect of his
elaborate remonstrances !
Pierre was fixing up his sword that had become
loose.
‘What must I tell the Colonel ?’ asked Sourof,
coldly.
‘Anything you please, dear, anything that comes
handy. To-morrow all that affair will be ar
ranged.’
Plato kept silent.
‘What did my sister say?’ he asked, after a
pause, ‘how did she judge the curious way in which
you take your embarrassing position ?’
Pierre was already in the hall, putting on his
cloak.
‘Ah! dear, aear friend,’ he exclaimed, turning
to Mourief, ‘I am the happiest of all men. Let me
embrace you.’
He gave a hearty embrace to his friend, and
disappeared amid a great noise of spurs and scab-
so young, and while away from his family,a young
man is so easily misled.—lie brought me a letter
which he warned me to send to hie mother—the
only relation he has. Such a request, at that hour
of nigh! seemed suspicious. I had Beard that an
officer had lost a considerable sum. I asked him a
fevs questions, and that child commenced crying.
^Aniid his tears I learned that being unable to
pay his debt, he whs determined to blow out his
eyes so sweet and confiding, never movements I able that these qualities should marry folks
jour wife'
‘Nancy’, said he excitedly,‘you know you did j brains as soon as he should be at his quarters. He
think asight of me afore you come quainted j had found that intelligent solution by himself;
with this neffy ot the Squires. Leastwise I think | what a smart boy ! Now, Princess, you who have
you did, and ali the folks in these parts said j suc h g0 oJ judgment, tell me, what would you
weuns were sweethearts. I dont say hit Nancy 1 ■ - ...
to hurt your feelings, aDd I haint one of them
sort, who because they cant marry the woman
they thinks a powerful sight of, gits mad and
hates her; I can never do that Nancy, for as
long as the good Lord gives me life I shall love
you same as I do now 7 . But Nancy let me tell
you this quality young man the Squire’s neffy
haint gwine to marry you. He is too sot up in
his ways to marry any of our sort, taint reasoa-
so fraught with artless grace, as those of this
mountain girl. And she - she only felt that life
had suddenly opened rich and lull to her, that
in Henry Crawford’s presence she was supremely
happy and that his prxise was sweeter even than
the gratified thirst for knowledge.
The mountain ash and chestnut were golden
with the touch of frost wh6u he came to say
goodbye. It meant more than an ordinary fare
well. for now the alarm of war had sounded
throu.h the land and the four year’s conflict
between the North and South was at Laud.
Henry determined to go with the first volun
teers. He felt that honor and duty called him,
and so he had expressed himself to Nancy.’
Butthe girl's mind.untainted by artificial teach
ings, revolted against the unnatural horror of
war and she did her b< st to dissuade him from it.
•Oh, the dreadful war !' she cried. Tt is only
legabz-'d murder. Think of hewing down men
of your own race and country, maybe your own
blood; think of the orphans and widows, the
tears and suffering you cause. And for what?
Just to vindicate some opinion, or to enforce
the continuance of some right that after all
there maybe no danger of your losing. Oh ! Mr.
Crawford, don’t risk your life in any such wav.
You can do more good with your life. See the
good you have done me. There are plenty more
living as I did in contented ignorance, neediDg
just to have a hand point out to them a higher
path. 1 can never he grateful enough to you. I
can not bear to think that my kind, true, wise
friend is going from me into such terrible
danger.’
Her voice faltered, tears haDg on her down
cast lashes. Henry conquered the sudden w'ish
^ to draw her to his heart; he must not startle
JUhis pu.- white dove of the mountains, and he
like weuns; theys too proud for that. This here
quality young man 1 reckon is manied afore
uiib to that fins young woman who was at the
Squires whe n he was thar. I’v hearn they was
engaged. Dent get mad Nancy. I see your face
turning red as a rose. If I have sed mor’n I
ought I ax you to forgive hit, because twant
sed purpose to hurt you. If X cant he no lover
to you, tirar haint no one v.hat would do more
for you than I would.’
Nancy placed her hand in his, saying,
‘I believe you and I thank you for this expres
sion of your kindness. If I ever need the aid of
a friend 1 will unhesitatingly call upon you.’
‘I pray God you wont stand in need of no
friend, Nancy,’ said he, brushing a tear from
his eye w ith his coa: sleeve, ‘but howsoever, if
the time come don’t he backward in calling on
me. 1 reckon I must say good-bye at the gate,
as mam is a sight worried when 1 am away. I
reckon you’d like to read this home paper,’ said
he, handing her the weekly j rurcal, published
at the county-seat. ‘I hearn them say iu town
“that thar had been a mighty hard light up yon
der in Yirgmuy day afore yesterday. Heaps of
our folks killed and — My sakes 1 Nancy, what
is the matter?’ said he, looking iu her face,
‘thar haint no more color in your face than thar
is in cotton.’
‘I will soon he better,’ she forced herself to
say.
‘That thar school keeping is gwine to ba
the death of you, Nancy; you haint got the
strength to stand hit. Beings I haint got no
right to say my say, I reckon I’d better hold my
tongue.’ Opening the gate for her to enter, he
mounted his horse and pursued his way.
Rale as marble, NaDcy grasped the paper as
soon as Richard Waters placed it in her hand,
have done in my place?’
‘Go on,’ said Sophie, smiling.
‘I first scolded him about his conduct. lie ac
knowledged all his misdeeds and said he deserved
certainly the most radical punishment. 1 then
spoke to him of his mother, and saw that I had
touched the right string He is the only child of
a mother who adores and spoils him. You may
judge of it by a single fact. She has an income of
seven thousand dollars; six thousand of which she
sends to her son, aud she lives on the balance.
Sicli mothers ought to be put in jai! to prevent
them from spoiling their children. Well! he cried
like a young calf—you laugh, Princess, I assure
you I did not laugh. In sphe of my want of elo
quence Providence had sent me inspiration, for I
was as much troubled as himself. 1 toid him to
give notes in payment. But the poor fellow is not
ot age, and they refused his papier, of course, He
tried to borrow money at an exorbitant interest,
but did uut succeed. Then ’
‘Then you signed the notes yourself,’ interrupt
ed the Princess, with happy tears iu bear eyes.
‘Well,’ said Mourief, as if begging pardon, ‘I
could not help it. 1 am of age myself, you kuow.’
‘And if you do not find the money for—to-mor
row, did j uu say ?’
•Yes, to-morrow. If I have not the money I
well, I—I really dont kuow what I shall do. But
the worst would be if the young man should lie
discharged, lie has no more idea of killing him
self. 1 will give all the money 1 have found, and
the creditor must accept my notes at a long time
for the balauca.
‘How much did you collect?’
‘Twenty-seven thousand dollars only, and it
was not without great difficulty. 1
‘Courage ! friend, hunt up the balance,’ said
Sophie, and she rose from the sofa.
‘You dismiss me?’ said Pierre, who wished to
stay.
•Dont you kuow my brother is waiting for you V
‘Indeed! I had forgotten it,’ said Mourief, look
ing for his cap—which he had iu his hand—‘ah 1
Princess, you have no idea how easy it is to bear
the weight of a fauit that one is not guilty of. I
would not exchange my place for that of my little
friend, the cornet.’
Full of aoxiety, Plato came back to his room,
and after a few minutes he determined to go to
consult his sister. She received him in the parlor.
Her face was rosy and her eyes betrayed a genuine
happiness. All her features had an expression of
supreme felicity.
Dosia was striking the piano as if she wanted to
break it, playing, or rather running over a galop
of Offenbach.
‘ilow gay you all are!’ he exclaimed, stopping
iu amazement in the centtr of the parlor.
‘The atmosphere of this house is the cause ef it,’
said Dosia, without stopping her gallop, ‘we are
gay, here, very gay !’
The piano covered her voice and laugh. Plato
took a seat by his sister, as far as possible from
the dreadful instrument.
‘ Y’ou have seen Mourief,’ he said.
‘1 have.’
‘What truth in what I reported to you?’
‘None.’
After that answer, Sophie looked triumphantly
at her brother.
‘How is that?’ asked Sourof.
‘But, yes, there is something; can you lend me a
few thousands?’
lLato bounded to his feet, and walked rap
idly up and down the room.
‘Is it a wager ?’ he asked.
Dosia had just left the piano, and when Sourof
turned round he found her before him. Her sar
castic look exasperated him.
‘I d like to know who you are making fun of in
this house. If it is of me, I believe the joke has
lasted long enough.’
•Who is making fun of you, Mr. Sourof?’ asked
Dosia, with her most innocent air.
‘You!’ he retorted angrily.
Sophie took her brother’s arm,
‘Muuriefis a hero,’ sheBaid.
•Because he spends his nights gaming, I sup
pose!’
•ile is a hero,’ repeated Sophie.
‘lie told you some story, aud you believed him,
1 ste.’
The Princess grew pale.
‘Pierre never lied,’ put in Dosia, ‘we cannot get
along together, it is true, but he has never told a
lie iu his life.’
Plato, more and more dissatisfied, looked alter
nately at both women and began chewing his
mustache,
‘1 promised not to say a word,’ said the Prin
cess, in a serious tone, ‘but we must find some
money. That sum must be paid soon to-morrow
morning.’
Sourof seemed to grow uneasy.
•I have depended on you for that,’ continued
Sophie, ‘how much can you obtain of for me V
•For you! Y’ou want to lend Mourief some
money? Should he accept it, he would prove
himself to be anything but ft gentleman.’
‘Not so. Oue cun accept anything from his
wife.’
‘His wife !’
Completely put out, Sourof threw himself into
an arm-chair. Dosia looked at him with a certain
uneasiness, but seeing that his life was not endan
gered, she laughed. So timid ADd so soft, however,
was her laugh that it could pass lor a smile.
‘Yes, his wife,’ repeated the Princess, raising
her head. ‘There is not a nobler, more generous
befrt. a more ’
‘There is not a more stupid soul than a great
soul,’ interrupted Sourof, raising from his chair.
‘That makes you laugh,’ he added speaking to
Dosia, ‘you find it very funny that a wise, prudent
woman could do an irredeemable folly!’
‘It is not that which I found funny.’
‘What is it, then ?’
‘You
Plato started.
‘Me?’ Why '’ if you please.’
‘Because you get mad and do not know what. at.
Nothing is so funny as to see a seu-dble in in fight
ing against windmills. But I am only a little girl
and know nothing about serious matters.’
So saying, she started to leave the parlor, but
turning round she added :
‘Princess, if you cannot agree together, just call
me aud 1 will come to help you.’
1 his time she left with the majesty of a queen.
[to be continued.]
The Yellow Fever in Oakland.
Its Ravages in Rural Districts.
The Fever Scare in the Coun
try A Bit of Silic Braid
Produces a Panic. The
Refugee Camps.
It is rather an anomaly iu the history of
Yellow Fever, that it should rage, with such
direful effects in the woods remote from towns,
and not confined even then to thickly settled
neighborhoods. Six weeks ago, or more, a
fever broke out in the country for miles from the
town of Oakland, Miss, which at its inception
was hardly suspected ot being the Yellow
Fever. After a few deaths had occurred Dr.
Gesler from Memphis, who examined the
patients pronounced it to be undoubtedly
‘genuine Yellow Fever whose opinion the coun
try physician, or at least a majority of them,
concur m with a great deal of reluctance. In
fact some still insist that it is nothing more
than a malignant type of bilious remittent
fever. Be it what it may, it is fatal to one half
of those attacked with it, and upon some fami
lies, the miseries and suffering it. has entailed
are effecting iu the extreme. But considerable
aid has lately been given by the Howards, who
have forwarded to the relief oommitte formed
of several of the citizens, an amount of money,
snfficent to relieve ail actual wants. How the
disease could have been contracted here, unless
from natural causes there existing, is whollv,
as yet, unaccounted for. It is a very thinly
settled hilly and usually very healthy locality.
Dr. Gesler gives it as his opinion, that it will
become an established disease in this locality.
I suppose he is as much entitled to his opinion
as the faculty are to their’s, that the diease is
caused from spores or animalculae, which
under a glass with a capacity for magnifying liftv
thousand times, caDnot be revealed. The diease
is still spreading, hut frost is anticipated to
night.
Six miles south of the little town of Charles
ton, and twelve from here, more than six weeks
ago, the Yellow Fever broke out in the family
of a Dr. Payne the fatality of which exceeds any
I have yet heard of. In Dr. Payne’s house were
fourteen or more residents, eleven of whom
have died, and the others are now sick. The
fever has spread over that neighborhood, from
the same reason that it has done in themajorliy
of instance*, viz: that the physicians were ig
norant of the character of the disease, and
numerous friends going to wait upon the sick,
it was thus disseminated. I have never been able
to learn ho v many have died in the neighbor
hood, as communication is almost cut off; but
Know that some six or seven have died in the
immediate vicinity of Dr. Payne’s. Unless this
disease was produced by natural causes, exist
ing on the premises, there is a refutation of
the doctrine, that twenty days is the maximum
time, within which, after exposure,a person can
take the fever. For it was more than a month
alter the exposure of Mr. M. at Grenada, before
the disease was developed upon himself or his
family who first had it in the above named
residence.
The panic that possesses the little towns in
this section can hardly be concieved of. When
the fever is some distance away, they quarantine
as strictly as possible; when it approaches they
pall up stakes in a hurry and refugee into the
woods. There they ‘squat’ anywhere, in old
country churches, in dilapidated log huts, in
plank or board tents pitched here and there
wherever there is a spring or stream. The
farther from the railroad, the more intense the
fever-scare. Any unlucky wight, who has been
upon a train, is refused admittance into the
house of his best friend, and letters and news
papers are regarded with an evil eye. As lor
anything sent through the mails in the shape
of cloth, it is regarded S3 an embodiment of
Yellow Jack. Let me give you a ludicrous in
cident. Some time since, while stopping in
a little rail road town, I sent to a lady in 0. (an
inland village! a yard of coat binding tor a pur
pose she had been informed of beforehaul.
She peeped cautiously in the envelope, saw
the little roll of braid, and dropped it as if it
had been a snake. The whole family debated a
day or two whether the braid should be taken
out of the envelope, and fiaally (as I was told)
nipping it out at arms-length with a pair of long-
legged tongs, and suljectiug it to day’s fumi
gation with brimstone and asaftehia.
And by the way, this same family are gypsey-
ing now—more romantically than comfjrtahly
iri a tent in the woods The fever approached
the little inland village and the inhabitants
lied to the country. Tnis chilly night as I sit
writing, I fancy I see my lady friend hovering
over her smoky camp fire, listening to the hoot
ing of owls and the nearer buzzing of mosqui
toes. Truth to tell, some of the discomforts at
tended on this refugeeing business are almost
as had as Yellow Jack. I was caught once at
one of these refugee camps—a little house in the
woods—where no sooner was the light extin
guished thau battallions of that enterprising in
sect—the bed hug—assailed the unfortunate in
mates and made them think they had jumped
from the frying pan into the fire. Bat then the
love of life is deep-rooted in the human animal
and we are seldom inclined to philosophize, with
an eminent poet, ‘ that ha who cuts off twenty
years of his life, cuts off so many years of fear
ing death.' An Old Acquaintance.
A little miss of eight summers, living on the
hill, was sent to a store on Main St. Saturday 7 ,
to purchase some lace. After closing it up the
clerk said: ‘Well, there’s one and a hall yards
of lace at 10 cents a yard, ho w much doeo it
come to?’ To which the miss pertly replied:
•Well, I’m not going to tell, I have to study’
Arithmetic all the rest of the week, and I am
not going to bother my head with it Saturdays, vijjj