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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