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SSf ■ fr 2 fMZtiimm 'mtWWW & v; 4# jjQ) 4s-• v41! v«» fe3 v yf s^§ v •• £ J&i <*3&~4L- - -—^ <- ‘-t-j *~~n Haney A', CJ liLA !w X 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