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‘No, and I care not for Him; bnt I know thee
to be a wily, stiDgy Jew. Here?’ Two men
rnsLed in, Israel was thrown on the ground, pin
ioned, and left like a deg.
In the daik, long after, someone orawled into
the tent.
'Maestro, let me cut the cords; oome, quick,
to say good-bye to Zillah.’
Pedro UDpinioned Israel; both weit softly
from the tint, round at the beck of tbecamp
where the drunken gipsies were carousing in
honour of the Ungaria CingaDno; the two came
to the knoll, near which poor Zillan sat.
•He has come, Israel. I wish he had come be
fore, or thou hadst never come. Israel, Israel,
what shall I do ? My soul is thine, how shall I
give it to another? How shall I give my body
wit hot t it ?’ Zillah’s tears came fast and thick.
Zillah, do not give thyself; remain as thou art.
Be thy people s teacher, thy people's good ge
nius ; the children want thee. Adore the Spirit,
and die a maiden !’
‘Israel, must thou go and leave us ?’
Zillah, for the first time, took hold of his hand,
and looked imploringly at him, just as the moon
cast fair t rays over them.
Steps were approaching; sly, treacherous
steps; as Israel gently stroked Zillah's hand to
quiet her, a great deep shadow came upon them.
‘Jew, infernal serpent, thou dareet touch my
bride ? Thou miserable wretch, who hast taken
the gold of the Christian to teco e rich. Off,
off the earth, away with thee—I’ll murder thee
in cold blood, and send tbee to thy own hell.’
The big shadow fell upon Israel, and with one
Bingle, powerful thrust, dealt sideways, drove a
dagger into his breast. Israel Torriano lay
bleeding on the ground.
‘Come away, thou false Zillah.’
‘False, yes false, for I was never true in my
teart; 1 detest thee; flee, or I curse thee. He
whom thou hast slain, he was a child of the
spirit, he was noble, he would not have taken
me, had I asked; Israel, Israel, come back; I will
do as thou hast said ! Oh, Israel, let me hear
thy v.' ice; art thou dead, 60 cold, so cold—Pe
dro, Pedro, where art thou, where hast thou
been ?’
Zillah lay on Israel’s body, moaning piteously.
They dragged her away.
‘That hound nay be buried to-morrow,’
growled the chief.
The moon shone on Israel’s pale blue face, on
the blood as it trickled from the wound over his
white shirt, on the hands that had clutched the
grass in tLe struggle between life and death.
Next morning, when they came to bury the
Jewish dog, anxiouB as they were after this mur
der to shilt the camp and expatriate themselves
to Hungary; next morning, the body was gone
and Pedro the Neapolitan spy was nowhere to
be found !
(TO EE CONTINUEIX)
W; OR JIMS GIFT.
Fred was a stray dog whose origin and whose
name even were shrouded in mystery. In 18G1
he had h nded in Yokohama from an English
tea-clipper, in the company of a melancholy
traveler. Nobody, of course, took any notice of
the dog at the time, and he, on his part, avoided
all familiarity with strangers, having, appar
ently, eyes and ears only for his master, whom
he followed everywhere.
This master, Mr. Alexander Young, was a
rather mysterious character. Nobody knew
whence he came or whither he was bound. The
captain of the Georgina had made his acquaint
ance in Java, and had given him a passage to
Japan on very moderate terms. During the
vc jvge, Alexander Yeung—or >’j.ody as he wte
commonly called—spoke very little and drank
a good deal. The captain, who, when at sea,
made it a rule never to take anything stronger
than water, was not at all disiDc.iced, when
ashore, to indulge in an extra bottle or so. In
consequence, he treated the weakness of hie
companion with compassionate fellow-feeling,
and even fell, on that very account, a soitol
sympathy for him, which showed itself in many
little kindnesses. Sandy was very grateful;and
in Lis sad, dreamy blue eyes there was a tender
and friendly expression whenever they rested
on the rugged, weather-beaten features of the
captain.
Fred was Sandy’s constant companion, and
the dog’s nose was never many inches distant
from his master's heels.
•Fred is a curious name for a dog,’ said the
captaiD, one evening; ‘why did you call him so?’
Sandy was silent for fully a minute, and then
answered slowly, ‘because he was a present from
my cousin Louisa.’
The captain was much impressed by this un
expected explanation; but as be was himself ac
customed to clothe his words in most enigmat
ical language, he made no doubt that Sandy’s
reply had some deep hidden meaning;and with
out indulging in indiscreet questions, he made
many efforts to solve the problem unaided.
From that time Sandy rose in Lis esteem. Nei
ther Sandy or he ever recurred to the subject;
bnt when, at a later period, the captain was
asked why Mr. YouDg's dog waB called ‘Fred,’
he answered, authoritively, ‘Because the dog
was a present from his cousin Louisa.’
Frea was a thorough-bred bull-terrier, snow-
white, with one round black spot over his left
eye. His fore-legs were bowed, his chest was
broad and powerful, his head broad and flat as
a frog's. His jaws were armed with a set of
short, uneven, sharp teeth, which seemed strong
enough to crunch a bar of iron. His eyes were
Bet obliquely in his head, Chinese fashion; nev
ertheless there was an honest and trustworthy
expression in them. One could see that Fred,
though he was a dangerous was not a savage or
a wicked beast.
Fred could smile in his grim way, if his mas
ter showed him a bone and said ‘Smile !' But, as
a rule he was as grave and serious as Young him
self. He was no bully or street-fighter. Confi
dent of his own strength, he looked with con
tempt on the small curs who barked and yelped
at him. But if a large dog, a worthy adversary,
attacked him, he fought with mute, merciless
fury. He neither barked nor growled on such
occasions, but the quick deep breathing under
which bis broad chest heaved, betrayed his in
ward fnry. His green eyes shone like emeralds,
and he fastened his fangs into his enemy with
such mad violence that it was a matter of great
difficulty to make him loose his bold.
During six months Sandy and Fred led a quiet
life at Yokohama. Sandy was known, it is true,
to consume in private an incredible amount of
spirits, bnt in public his behavior was unexcep
tionable, and no one had ever seen him intoxi
cated. A few days after bis arrival he had
bought one of the rough, ugly little ponies of
the country. Those who, for some reason or
another, strayed from the beaten paths usually
frequented by foreign residents at Yokohama,
declared that they had met Yonrg, the pony,
and Fred in the most nnlooked-for places. Tne
lonely rider, the horse, and the dog appeared,
they said, equally lost in deep reverie. Young
smoked, the pony, with the reins hanging loose
on its neck, walked with his bead down, as
though it were studying that road of which its
master took no heed; while Fred followod close
behind, with his dreamy half-closed eyes fixed
on the horse’s hoofs. Yonng never addressed
anybody, bnt returned every salutation politely,
and, so to speak, gracefully, The Europeans at
Yokohama wondered at their qnief fellow-exile,
and the Japanese called him kitchingay—crazy.
Young rarely remained in town when the
weather was fine. He would leave tha settle
ment in the early morning with his two four-
footJa companions, and not return from his ride
till dusk. But if it rained and blew hard, one
might be sure to find him on the bund— the street
which leads from the European quarter to the
harbor. On such occasions Sandy, with bis
hands behind his b<-ok, walked slowly np and
down the broad road with Fred at his heels as
usual; though it was evident that the poor
drenched animal did not share his master’s en
joyment of bad weather. At intervals Sandy
wonld stop in his walk and watch with apparent
interest the boisterous sea and the vessels that
tossed upon it. Whenever this happened Fred
immediately sat upon his haunches and fixe I his
blinking eyes on bis master’s countenenoe as
though he were trying to discover some indica
tion that he was going to exchange the impass
ible street for the comfortable shelter of his
lodgings. If Young stayed too long, Fred would
push him gently with his nose as if to wake him
out of his day-dream. Sandy would then move
on again; but he never went home till the storm
abated or night set in. This strange, aimless
walking np and down gave him the appearance
of a man who has missed his railway train, and
who, at some strange, nninteresting station,
seeks to while away the time till the next depart
ure.
Yonng must have brought some money with
him to Yokohama, for he lived on for several
weeks without seeking employment. At the end
of that time, however, he advertised in the Japan
rimes to theeffeetthat he had set npin business
as public accountant. In this capacity he soon
found some employment. He was a steady con-
scientions worker, rather slow at his work, and
evidently not caring to earn more than was re
quired for his wants. In this way he became
acquainted wiih Mr. James Webster, the head of
an important American firm, who, after employ
ing Young several times, at last offered him an
excellent situation as assistant bookkeeper in
hi3 bouse. This offer bandy declined with
thanks.
‘I do not know how loDg I may remain oat
here,’ he said. ‘I expect letteis from home
which may oblige me to leave at once.’
Those letters never came, and Sandy grew
paler and sadder every day. One evening be
went to call on James Webster. A visit from
Sandy YouDg was such an nnnsnal occurrence
that Webster, who, as a rale, did not like to be
disturbed,came forward to greet his visitor. Bnt
Sandy would not come in; be remained at the
entrance, leaning against the open door. His
speech and manner were calm and even care
less, and Webster was consequently somewhat
surprised to hear that he had come to take leave,
‘Sit down, man,' said Webster, ‘and take a
brandy-and-soda and a cheroot.’
‘No, thank you,’ replied Young. ‘I leave early
tc-morrow morning; and I have only just time
to get my things ready.’
‘So you are really going away?’ said Webster.
‘Well, I am sorry you would not stay with us.
As it is, I can only wish yon good lack and a
prosperous voy ga,
He held out hi» Land, which Young pressed
so warmly that Webster looked at him with some
surprise, and as he looked it seemed to him that
there was moisture in Sandy Young’s eyes.
‘Why don’t you stay ?' continued Webster, who
felt a curious interest in the sad, silent man.
‘The place I offered yon the other day is still va
cant.’
Young remained silent for a few minutes
Then he shook his head, and said gently:
•No, thanks. You are very kind, bnt I had
better go. What should I do here ? Japan is a
fine country; bnt it is so very small—always the
same blue sen, the same white Fusyyama, and
the same people riding the same horses and fol
lowed by the t ame dogs. I am tired of it all.
You must Admit, Mr. Webster, that life is not
highly amusing out here.’
There was a short pause, after which Sandy
resumed, but speaking more slowly and in still
lower tones:
‘I think there must be a typhoon in the air; I
feel so weary. I do not think, Mr. Webster,
that yon can ever have felt as weary as I do. I
thought we were going to have a storm this
morning. It would perhaps have done me good.
This has been a very close, heavy day. Well,
good-night. I did not like to leave Yokohama
without bidding yon good-bye, and thanking
yon for ail your friendliness.’
He moved away with hesitating steps, and
when he had gone a few paces he.tumed around
and waved his hand to Webster, who was follow
ing him with his eye.
•I thank you again, Mr. Webster,'he repeated,
with almost pathetic earnestness. ‘I wish you
a very good-night.’
And so he disappeared into the darkness.
That night a terrifio storm burst over Yoko
hama, but it came too late to revive poor weary
Sandy. He was lonDd dead in bis bedroom the
next morning, having hanged himself during
the night. On the table lay a large sheet of pa
per with the following words, written in a bold
Land, ‘Please take care of Fred.’
Nothing was found in Sandy’s trunk bnt some
shabby clothes and a bundle of old letters which
had evidently been read over and over again.
They were without envelopes, dated from Lim
erick, 1855 and 1856, and merely signed, ‘Lou
isa.’ They were txamined carefully in the hope
that they might fnrnish some clue to Sandy’s
parentage and connections; bat they were love-
letters—mere love-letters-and contained noth
ing tLat could interest anyone but poor Sandy
bimself. There was frequent mention of a fath
er and a mother in these letters, and it was clear
that they had not been favorable to the lovers,
but who this fath r and mother were did not
appear. Other persons were mentioned, as
•Charles,’ ‘Edward,’ ‘Mary,’ and ‘Florence,’ but
their Christian names only were given. In the
last letters of October, November, and Decem
ber, 1856, there was constant reference to a cer
tain Frederick Millner, a friend of Sandy's,
whom he bad, apparently, introduced to his
cousin and lady-love. In the first tf these let
ters, Louisa wrote that her mother was much
pleased with Mr. Millner, who was a most agree
able and charming companion. In course of
time Mr. Millner became ‘Frederick Millner,’
then ‘Fred Millner,’ ‘F. M.,’ and at last he was
simply ‘Fred.’ Fred had accompanied Louisa
and her mother to Dublin, where they had all
been much amused. Fred was a capital rider,
and at the last meet he bad taken the big stone
wall at the back of Hraohan Park, in a style
which had excited the admiration of all present.
Fred accompanied Lonisa frequently on horse
back, and she bad never had such capital rid-
ing-lessots as from him; he understood horses
better than anybody, and that ill-tempered
•Blackbird,’ that Sandy bad never dared to ride,
was as gentle as a lamb with Fred. At the last
athletic sports gotten up by the effioers of the
19th, Fred had thrown the hammer farther than
anybody, and wonld bave certainly have won
the foot-hurdle race likewise, had he not fallen
at the last hurdle. Fred had a beautiful voice;
Fred danced well;— Fred here, Fred there, Fred
everywhere. In the latt letter it was laid how
‘poor daring Fred had fallen with Blackbird at
the last steeplechase and had broken bis collar
bone. Yet be did not give up the race, and
came in third. Mother bad insisted on his re
maining here to be nnrsed by ns till he gets
well. He sends his best love and will write as
soon as he is able.’
These letters were sealed np and deposited in
the archives of the British consulate al Yoko
hama. Inquiry was n. ade officially at Limerick
whether a Mr. Alexander Young and a Mr. Fred
erick Millner had been known there in 1855and
1856. In due course of tixiie the reply came,
but brought no satisfactory answer to the ques
tions. Alexander Young was quite unknown.
A young man named Frederick Millner, had
lived at Limerick at the date mentioned. After
bringing shame and sorrow to the daughter of
an honored family, he had left the town in se
cret and had never been heard of since.
As Alexander Young left no property of any
value, no further inquiries were made, and he
was soon forgotten. He was buried very quietly,
and James Webster, the constable of the English
consulate, and Fred, alone accompanied him to
the grave.
After the funeral the dog returned to Yoko
hama. For several days he searched anxiously
for his master in his old lodgings and near the
new-made grave; hat he soon became convinced
of the fruitlessness of his endeavors, and thence
forward he became, as a Californian called him,
‘an institution of Yokohama.’
Sandy’s last wish, ‘Please take care of Fred,’
was faithfully attended to. Many of the resi
dents of Yokohama showed themselves ready to
adopt the good dog; but Fred did not seem in
clined to acknowledge a new master, and testi
fied little gratitude for the caresses bestowed on
him. He visited first one and then another of
his nnmerons patrons, and did not object to ac
company any of them in turn during a walk or
a ride; but no one could boast that Fred was his
dog.
His favorite resort was the club, where, in the
evening, all of his friends met, and where he
usually remained till the last guest left. Then
he took up his quarters withi one or other of
his friends, and hospitality wafa readily extend
ed to him, for he was both wktohfal and well-
behaved.
A year had thus gone by, when the Georgina
once more arrived in Yokohama. The captain
walking in the bund one day, recognized hia for
mer passenger, Fred, and called to the dog.
Fred snuffed at him deliberately, drooped his
head, and appeared, for a few minutes, to med
itate profoundly. But suddenly he showed the
wildest delight, leaped np at the captain and
licked his hands, barking and smiling, then
started down the street at full speed, and at last
returned to take his old place at the heels of
his new master. The captain, we have said,
was a philosopher; he accepted the adoption as
a decree of fate to which he bowed submissively.
One evening, not long after this, the captain
was attacked by a party of drunken Japanese
officers. Fred sprang at the throat of one of the
assailants and would have strangled him, if an
other of the Japanese had not cut him down with
a stroke of his sword. TLe captain escaped
with a slight wound and took refuge in the club,
from whence he soon sallied forth with a party
of friends to give chase to his foes and try to
save his dog. But his bravo friend and defend
er was dead. He was buried in the yard of the
club-house of Yokohama, where a stone with the
inscription, ‘Fred, 1863,’ still marks the place
where poor Sandy's faithful oompanion lies.—
Blackwood s Magazine.
Too Much Married.
An Aildress to the Womenf the Union De g
aounciug Polygamy,
Salt Lake, Utah, November 7th.—The follow
ing was adopted at a meeting of non-Mormon
women of this city to-day:
To Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes and the women
of the United States: It is more than thirty
years since polygamy was planted on the shores
of the great Salt Lake. During these years Con
gress has utterly failed to enact efficient or en
force existing laws for the abolition of this great
crime, and we believe that more of these unlaw
ful and unhallowed alliances have been consum
mated during the Dast ye^-- than ever before in
the history of the Morm,;- ^Dhurch. Endowment
houses, under the name- J temples, are being
erected in different pates'/t'the territory, cost*-
ing millions. It is iuapo^Vible to ascertain the
exact number of polygamous marriages, for they
are consecrated in these endowment houses, an
institntion no Gentile is permitted to enter,
where the brotherhood and sisterhood are seal
ed and bound by oaths so strong that even apos
tates will not reveal them, and to mention which
witnesses on the witness stand unblnshingly
peijure themselves and violate all considerations
of oath and duty. Considering all our surround
ings, polygamy has never taken such a degrad
ing and debasing form in any nation or among
any people above the condition of barbarism as
in Utah. It is degrading to any and woman, a
curse to children and destruction to the sacred
relation of family, upon which the civilization
of nations depends, and there are things that
cannot be repeated or printed that reduce the
system to the lowest form of indeoency; that it
should be protected in the name and under the
cloak of religion, that an apostle polygamist,
with four acknowledged wives, is permitted to
sit in Congress, only adds to the enormity of
the crime and makes it more revolting to our
common Christian principles. Our legislature
is composed almost entirely of polygamists and
members of the Mormon priesthood, and they
have thrown around polygamy every possible
safeguard in their power, and the right of dower
has been abolished to break down the difference
between a lawful wife and a concubine. The
Mormons are rapidly extending their settlments
into Arizona, Idaho, New Mexico and Wyoming.
They have the balance of power in two territo
ries and are without doubt plotting for it in oth
ers. We call upon the Christian women of the
United States to join ns in urging Congress to
empower its oonrts to arrest farther progress of
this evil and to delay the admittance of Utah
into statehood until this is accomplished, and
we ask yon to publish our appeal in order to
arouse public sentiment, which should be against
an abomination that peculiarly oppresses aud
stagmatizes woman. It is our purpose to ask
names to a petition designed for Congress, and
we hope also, that every minister of the gospel
will recommend it to the women of his congre
gation, and that all Christian associations will
do what they can to ojbtain signatures. With
the cordial co-operation and concerted action of
the Christian women of our land, we may confi
dently hope that the great sin of polygamy may
bo abolished.
Material Effects of the Fever,— The
Editor of that sterling periodical the Eclectic
Magazine speaks thus kindly and hopefully of
the South and of her recuperative po wer.
It is eamated that theaotual material loss to the
region of country scourged by the yellow fever,
thnsfar is not less than $200,000,000, and this is
doubtless a very low estimate. Splendid stands
of cotton will be lost for want of hands to pick
it, while the cessation of business, in oities and
towns, and on the railroads and river, has occa
sioned enormons losses, which cannot now be
computed. Beyond expression, this has been a
terrible year for the people of the Lower Missis
sippi Valley. Some people talk in a melancholy
way, and express the belief that the South will
be utterly, irremediably rained. That is an im
possibility. The Booth has been swept by the
flood, pestilence and the sword, yet has she
oome np oat of the depths with a firm step and
a hopeful heart. Temporarily crashed the
South may be, but destroyed never.
Jean’s Winter
in the City.
BY STEPHEN BRENT.
Kinder Garten.—We are pleased to know
that the Kinder-Garten feature is in successful
operation at our Graded Sc hool, under the spe
cial charge of Miss Lizzie Lindsay, who"haa made
a very close study of this mode of instr iction
for some time past. It is popular with parents
and the childron delight in it—Greensboro, .Y.
C., Patriot
CHAPTER L
‘Jean,’ said aunt Debby, looking np from her
work, ‘suppose you go over to the post-office if
it is not too oold. I think perhaps there is a let
ter for ns.’
Jean closed her book and slipped down from
her favorite beat in the old fashioned kitchen
window.
‘You mean there is one for yourself, aunt
Debby. It would be a thing unheard of in the
annals of my brief life for me to get a letter.’
‘Well, as you go on, stop at the store and get
me some red yarn, and you may buy that book
you wanfed.’
Cloaked and hooded, Jean went out from the
big cosy farm house kitchen into the gray, drear
November afternoon. Indian summer was over,
and brown and dead, the leaves were falling tc
the ground. There was not a touch of bright
color anywhere in the gray clouded sky, or on
the brown, dtso'ate earth. All was dull, and
sere, and unmistakably November. Such
weather always had a depressing effect on Jean
Delare, and ther#was hardly a gleam of bright
ness in the deep brown eyes, as she want across
the'baie fields to the ugly, struggling little vil
lage of Cross Corners.
She was not remarkable for her beauty. She
was slim and dark, with abundant black brown
hair, a clear colorless complexion, and dark
brown eyes. They we:e her greatest beauty—
thoee sweet dark eyes—fringed with long siiky
lashes, and always looking out on the world so
frankly and fearlessly, mirroring the truth and
honesty of the young soul beneath.
Stopping tt the great pile of gray rock that
marked the half-way ground, Jeaa looked back
at the old farmhonse, standing in a grove of ma
ples.
It was her home, and she ought io bave loved
it as such, but I am sorry to say that she did not,
and on this particular afternoon she disliked it
more than ever. Not that she was ill-treated, oh
no ! Miss Grey was as kind to the orphan girl as
anyone could be. It was the deadly calm that
Jean hated, the level, eventless life that rolled
on from year to year, without any change to
break it
She remembered a different life from this, a
careless, happy life, when she and her artist
father wandered from land to land. Lingering in
English lanes, sweet with the scent of blossom
ing hawthorne and pa’e primroses. Dreaming
by the beautiful lakes of Italy, or sailing down
the Rhine, with the dark old castles outlined
against the evening sky and the sailor's song
filling the air. How bright and. picturesque it
was, those long days spent among the pictures
of old Rome, when James Delare did little else,
but dream and talk to his oonny Jean, telling
her the hittory of artists and piotures and teach
ing her the art of drawing.
No wonder the girl grew tired of her dull,
lonely life, and longed to go back to the beauti
ful world, with its restless, changeful life.
These broken memories of her childhood
stood out, iu vivid contrast to her present life,
making it all the more dreary.
After that long, silent look at the old farm
house, Jeaa went on to the village.
‘Ah yes, come for letters,’ said the Postmaster
cheerfully, as the slim figure came into ihe tiny
office. ‘There is not any for you, Miss Jean,
‘glancing over the mail.
•I did’nt suppose there was,’ answered the
girl without the shadow of a smile on her face.’
‘If I ever received a letter, Mr. Warrington, it
was before I could remember.’
‘Never mind, just wait untill you have a sweet
heart, that will be romantic enough to go off to
California or some other place to make a for
tune. Then there will be more letters for Mias
Delare, than I can deliver.’
Miss Delare, frowned, and coldly said:
‘Mr. Warrington, how often have I told you
that I dislike such jesting?’
‘I cannot tell, a number of times though. Ah!
here is a letter for your aunt, and by the way,
how is that best of friends, and kindest of
neighbors?’
‘My aunt is well, thank you,’ putting the let
ter in her pocket.
The yarn being purciased, then Jean turned
her steps toward the small book store. All of
her small change flowed into the coffers of that
establishment. Books, magazines or papers,
were bought every time she had any money,
were read, dreamed over and treasured, as some
thing more precious than gold or jewels.
She had long been wishing for a copy of Ir
ving's Sketch Book, but Miss Gray had never
gave her the money to buy it, untill that day.
Holding her new bought treasure close, Jean
started homeward. Reaching the rock, she
nestled down in a nook and opening her booh
began to read.
The dull gray afternoon wore on, bnt Jean
never heeded it, until reading the last words
of the beautiful Sketch on Westminster Abbey,
she glanced up, and found it was nearly
night.
Her limbs were tired, and numb, bnt she did
not feel it, her mind far away in old England,
wandering with Washington Irving through
the grand old Abbey, where kings lay sleeping,
and where the honored dust of poets, and phil
osophers mingled. Dusk twilight brooded over
the earth, when she opened the gate, and a flood
of warm crimson light shone invitingly from
the open kitchen door. Miss Gray was anx
iously waiting for her.
‘Goodness alive, Jean! I thought you never
would come. What bave you been doing
child ? ’
‘Sitting on the high rook reading.’
‘And freezing yourself to death. I’ll declare
I never did see such a girl. You look black and
blue; go to the fire an d warm, then we will have
supper.’
‘Here is a letter, aunty, ’ handing her the half
forgotten epistle.
‘A loiter? Let me see; I expect it is from
your uncle John. I do wonder where my specs
are ? ’
Jean sat down and ate her simple supper of
brown bread, milk and homemade cheese, su
premely indifferent as to what the large square
envelope contained.
After reading the last words, annt Debby re
folded her letter with a very grave face.
‘Jean, how would you like to spend the winter
in the oity ? ’
Jean came near dropping her cup, her brown
eyes wide with astonishment.
•Why aunty, have I the opportunity ? ’
‘Yes, this letter is from your uncle John, and
as yoa are now seventeen, he wants you to spend
the winter in New York.’
Jean’s slender hands olasped each other, her
faoe radiant.
‘Oh aunty ! what good news! I oan go out
into the grand world again,’ then for the first
time, watoningthe sad expression on Miss Gray’s
faoe, her own grew colorless and sad again.
Going around to her aunt’s chair, she put her
arms round her neck—it was a rare thing for
Jean to caress any one—and said:
‘How wickedly selfish I am to want to leave
.vou, when you have been so kind to me. I
*wont do it.’
Miss Gray passed her hand caressingly over
the brown bair.
‘My bonny, brow-eyed Jeon, you must. I
8 hall not be very lonely then, I am not ornei
e nough to keep you dear.’
Jean kissed the kind old hand lying on her
shoulder, whispering:
‘The best, and kindest aunt that ever lived.’
‘Oh nonsense! don’t make me vain child.
John wants to fnrnish your wardrobe; but I in
tend to give yon some money myself.
The two talked a long time that night over
this sudden change in Jean’s life, and kind
faithful aunt Debby gave a great deal of advice
about going to too many parties, and wearing
thin dresses.
Long alter Jean’s eyes were closed in sleep,
Miss Gray sat over the burned-out fire thinking
of the past.
Years before, thirty of them, she had a nephew
and a neice, living with her at the old home
stead. A brother and sister, and the children
of her dead sister. John, the eldest, was a prac
ticed-minded youth, with a talent for making
and keeping money. He went to New York at
twenty-two, and being exceedingly goodiookiDg
and a perfect gentlemen, he married the only
daughter of a rich merchant. This smoothed
his pathway to greatness, anu in a score of years,
he was one of the greatest merchant princes in
the city. Della grew up to womanhood, and
one fair summer married a young Fiench artist.
She want to Europe with her husband, and in
two years a black bordered letter was received
at the nomestead. Beautiful Della was dead,
her life went out as Jean’s came in, and under
the skies of a southern France, she lay in
dreamless sleep.
For nine years then Miss Grey heard nothing;
but one August evening, a haggard, white faced
man, and a little girl came up the lane. James
Delare had brought his child for annt Debby to
to take care of.
■You will do it better than I ever conld.’ he
said, and the gentle, white haired woman, drew
the child near, and kissed the small, dark face,
that in shape and feature was so like the fair
young mother’s. Delare went back to France
and in five days after landing died. The
dreamer’s life was ended and the dreamer had
solved the mystery of the great Beyond.
‘Miss Grey roused herself with a sigh, and
raking down the dying coals, she took up her
candle and went into Jean’s room.
‘Heaven bless and keep her,’ softly kissing
the young face on the pillow, and then she went
to her own rest.
[to bb continued.]
The Critic’s Corner*
Just a Suggestion.
The indefatigable zeal and perseverance of the
Editors of the Sunny South are evidently receiv
ing their just meed of reward in a steadily in
creasing patronage and it may be confidently
anti cipate d that it has before it a future not less
usiful than brilliant.
It is this consideration that prompts the pres
ent writer to effer a suggestion or two which, as
proceeding from a deep interest in the cause of
Southern literary enterprise and from no im
pertinently critical conci it, he trusts may not be
regarded as officious presumption.
The new feature lately introduced in the col
umns of the Sunny South—the page for the dis
cussion of educational questions—is calculated
greatly to enhance its value. Very wise and
very seif-satisfied as is the present age of won
derful discovery and scientific development
there is much to be unlearned as well as learned
about education. From Socrates down, many
wise men, philosophers and statesmen, have
given to this suiject the profoundest thought
and yet, if the many conflicting theories regard
ing it are any evidence, we are still very far in
deed, from having arrived at any sound conclu
sion as to the manner in which the knowledge
that profits can be best imparted. Upon this
vexata qua:stio the writer does not in the re
marks to follow purpose to deliver himself ex
cepting incidentally.
Outsidaof our schools and colleges there are
influences irresistibly operating which are edu
cating for ‘better or worse’ all who are brought
into contact with them, and with the young es
pecially are these influences most powerful.
Very far from being one of the least tffective
of their influences is that of the ephemeral liter
ature of the day.
Most happily for those Southern young men
and maidens for whose profit and amusement
the Sunny South so assiduously provides, its
columnes give little encouragement to writers of
the Josh Billings type. It does not pander to a
low taste; it does not encourage prurient peep
ing into the fon) cellars of Iranian crime and in
firmity; its atmosphere is pure and bracing; it
seeks to elevate, not to degrade and enervate.
But it is also a school for aspirants after liter
ary fame and it is just here that— if it be not pre
sumption to say so—there is a want to be sup
plied, a want which it is suggested that a cor
ner of the paper devoted to criticism wonld ad
mirably provide for. Such a corner—‘The Clit
ic’s Corner’—could be devoted to courteous crit
icism delicately touching upon any fault of
weakness manifest in the contributions to its
columns cf more or less unpractised writers.
Americanisms and all other isms offensive to
cultivated taste could in such a ‘corner’ receive
a mild castigation, a castigation so politely and
gently given that the offender— if he or she be
not of a hopelessly inappreciative disposition—
would rather accept it with an:—‘Indeed, I
thank yon,’ than resent it as unpardonable out
rage. Of no snch disposition the writer is very
confident will be found any of the contributors
to the columns of the Sunny South.
In our Southern literature classical taste is
not often oflended with the ‘guessing’ and ‘cal
culating’ whioh the writers of another section so
mnoh delight in; bnt we have our literary frail
ties, too, and not a few of them so glaringly
frailties for which no apology shonld be accept
ed, that a reasonable effort should be made to get
rid of them.
When we read of a lady of education and re
finement invitiog her governess to play some,
the ‘spacious mansion,’ the 'elegant drawing
room, and ail the ‘recherche' surroundings of this
educated and refined lady we cannot help re
garding as we would regard the elaborately su
perb setting of a diamond not of the first water.
The incongruity shocks; our respect for the lady
oozes out of our fingers’ ends and onr pity is
profound for the poor governess, doomed to
have her school-room efforts daily thwarted by
the drawing-room influence upon her scholars.
The governess must, under such circumstances,
give way to ‘mama’ of course, but if, as doubt
less is the case, wealthy, ‘refined’ and ‘educa
ted’ ladies are not always classical in their lan
guage, let us not have them reproduced in sto
ries, thus giving a quasi endorsement to such—
we will use a mild term— inelegancies of expres
sion.
The ‘Critic’s Corner,’ Messrs. Editors, yon
would find to be an admirable institution, and
if yonr popular associate Editor, whose little
gems of criticism are always appreciated, would
preside over it, there would be a gradual extin
guishment of literary frailties and ‘ nobody
hart.’ H. E.
Greenville, S. O.
Those in se arch of a paying Ageney of any kind
should corre spond with our friend ’l’heo. Shuttles,
of St. Louis, whose advertisement will be found in
our column s. Mr. Shuttles is favorably known
throughout this section and we heartily commend
him to agen ts everywhere.
mtsn