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Tit DAY AFTER MT DEATH.
CROSSING Til E RIVER STYX.
Charon and His Ferry-Boat.
‘Startling Itisrlnsurrs in tlic Infer
nal ICeuJoiiM.
CHAP'IER V.
THE GROTTO OF LFTHE.
•Well, gentlemen/ eaid the apparitor, as soon
as we had regained the central corridor, ‘have
■yon had enough of the prisons? If so, we may
as well ue setting ont fo- the city while the af
ternoon is yet young. Wha*. is your pleasure?’
We looked at each other in some uncertainty,
■' J Dnr opinions, I think, were divided, though
none of us liked to be the first to speak, lest by
expressing marked preference for any other
employment than that of solving the problem
'of rexis’ence he should link in tl e estimation of
his comj anions. The coun'ry gentleman, I
could see. was anxious to escape from a place
■where he had first been brought to think with
regret and remorse of bis favorite earthly pur
suit. The Liberal M. C., on the other hand,
was deeply interested in the prisons and their
inmates, and would willingly have remained
there some time longer. The artist and the
poet were on the whole in favor of departure,
and it was ultimately agreed that we should now
qnit the prson and set out for the City. As we
deceoded the spiral staircase, which led back
from the central corridor to the court-yard, the
apparitor paused for a moment on cne of the
landings, and pointed to a vaulted passage
wh’ch branched off from it, ^with a large door
at tlie father end.
•There,’ he slid, ‘is a ward which it would
doubtless amuse you to visit had we time to do
so. It is the ward of the Impostors.’
‘The Impostors!’ said the M. C.; ‘why, I
thought that all spirits guilty of fraud and im
posture were confined in the wards which we
have just left.’
‘So they are, if by fraud and imposture you
noean imposture perpetrated with the object of
defrauding others of their money. These are
impostors cf a different kind : they a r e those
who have defrauded their neighbors of their
respect, admiration, or good opinion.’
We were still in some uncertainty as to his
meaning.
■Don’t yon understand?' continued the ap
paritor. ‘In this ward there are con fined all
those who in life passed them s lives eff before
their fellow men for what they were not, and
who have att« mpied to maintain the deception
here, and under the Light which shines upon
the hidden life of all. 1 And the apparitor at
these words reverently bowed his head. 'Every
man who has sought and gained credit from his
neighbors for knowledge, or taste, or skill, or
judgment which he did not possess, is here ex
piating his deceit. The sham savant of the
drawing-room, the art critic incapable of dis
tinguishing a Titian frr m a tea-board—the lin
guist skilled in tvsry language which his pres
ent company is unable to speak—the musical
connoisseur who discourses learnedly on the art,
and plays an instrument which he has left at
home-the traveller full of stories of the strange
things which he has Dot seen—the quidnunc,
fortunate depository of the Prime Minister's
most important State s< crets—the man of uni
versal acquaintance, who was at school with"
every one of his distinguished countrymen, all
these classes of impostors are numerous’y rep
resented here. There are,
in a. wovH h
who in their lifetime knew the
‘Ha !’ said the coudtry gentleman, in « tone
of satisfaction. ‘Come, I am glad of that, how
ever. It is one of the most common and per-
nic'ous forms of imposture.’
‘And pray bow long,’ enquired the M. C., ‘do
these prisoners remain in confinement here?’
•Until they admit themselves to be imprs-
tors.’ was the reply ; ‘that is all that is required
of them. That admission once made, they are
set at liberty without further punishment.’
•Indeed!’ said the poet; ‘I should think,
tb"v are not loDg on your hands.’
Toe apparitor shrugged his shoulders.
‘Some of them,’ he said, ‘have been known
to remain here twenty years before making the
necessary admission !'
‘But, surely/ said the poet, ‘surely they must
know that the Light Las shone through them,
and exposed their impostnre ?‘
•My»dear sir, ‘ replied the apparitor, smiling,
‘what humbug of your acquaintance on earth
was ever conscious of his own transparency ?
But yon must be growing weary of this ; and at
this rate we shall never get on to the City. 1
We descended the spiral staircase by which
we had mounted to the central corridor, and
passed ont again into the court-yard which di
vides the prison from the Court of Sleepers.
Across this court-yard we followed our guide
to the gre a* gate at its outer extremity, After a
few words had been exchanged with the inmate
of the lodge or guard room, and, apparently, a
password given which we were unable to catch,
the great gate was thrown open, and we found
ourselves for the first time clear of the palace
of Justice and its outbuildings, and looking
forth upon an open plain.
Straight ahead in the far distance, its spires
gnd pinnrcles shimmering faintly as in a dream,
lay the city of Earthly Life. Between it and us
lay a bald and treeless waste, grey and dreary,
and monotonous as a prisoned life. Bat towards
the right, and but a few score yards from where
we stood, the plain was broken by a jagged line
of rocks, from which the ground descended
with a varying dec ivitv—not gentle nor abrupt
—towards the Styx, which we could just descry
stealing black and sluggish along the hollows.
•Yonder,’said the apparitor, pointing across
the waste, ‘yonder lies the city whither so many
discharge! spirits bend their steps on the in
stant cf their liberation from the prisons.’
We gazed tower Is it with an intense curiosi
ty. Tnat there should be a city in the spirit
world - an earthly city—and with, as the appa
ritor had assured us, all the characteristics of
the cities of earth, was a marvel at which we
had not ceased to wonder. At the same time, I
should be nncandid were I to deny that our cu
riosity was somewhat of a pleasurable kind.
Doubtless it was, as the M. C. had observed, a
profoundly saddening aDd humiliating redac
tion that the spirit of man, freed from the tram
mels and temptations of the flesh, should yet
retain so deeply the taint of earth as to prefer
the lower life it had quitted to the higher life
upon which it might enter; still, alter the first
feeling of sadness and humiliation, we began to
get gradually reconciled to the thought. There
would always be, we reflected, an order of spir
its who would prefer the lower to the higher
life; and there was no reason, because we had
prefeied the higher for the future, that we should
deprive ourselves of the preseDt amusement of
watching the ignoble pm suits of those who had
made the lower ohoice. The country gentle
man, I think, felt these considerations in great
er force, from the fact that in life his favorite re
laxation had consisted in a ‘run up to tiwn fo
two or three days’—a relaxation, however, in
which he had been compelled by powerful do
mestic induerces to a very sparing indnlgence.
I saw that his pleasure at the prospect of spend
ing ariother day in a great city was ooLsiderably
heightened by the redection that he was doing
so without the knowledge of his widow. We all
of us,however, kept our satisfaction to ourselves,
and stood gszing at the distant city with a dec
orous solemnity.
•The existence of thisoity, sir,’said theM. C.,
at last breaking the silence to address the ap-
pa-itor, ‘is a singular shook to all our precon
ceived notions of another life.*
‘And pray, ‘ replied the apparitor,rather sharp
ly, ‘what were your preconceived notions? 1
‘Well/ said the M. C., a little taken abaek by
the abruptness of the question, ‘human views
as to a future state differ in many respects, hut
most enlightened persons agree in thinking that
the condition cf all disembodied spirits—of
those, 1 mean, who aie not undergoing punish
ment for their sins on earth—will he the same;
that, I mesn, there will be no variety of occupa
tion or employment for them, such as the exist
ence of this city would seem to imply.’
‘Indeed/ said the apparitor, ‘is tkat the cur
rent opinion on earth, gentlemen ?'
‘Ob, yes,’ we replied, ‘it undoubtedly is the
current opinion, that the condition of all de
parted spirits is the same.’
•Y. s. Y'es/ muttered the country gentleman,
‘bang it, yes, the same for all. 1
‘ADd this common employment? inquired the
apparitor.
•Well/replied the M. C., after a pause, no
body answering, ‘there was oertainly not the
same unanimity on that point.’
‘I see,’ said the appaiitor, ‘you are unani
mously convinced that all spirits would employ
their eternity in the same way in another world,
though you could not agree as to what that way
would be.’
‘You have hit it exactly,’ cried the country
gentleman, filled with admiration at so lucid an
explanation of his views.
‘The opinion most popular in former times,’
continued the M. C., somewhat in a lecturers
tone, ‘was that spirits would be perpetually oc
cupied in the exercss of the emotions—love,
gratitude, &■}. Latterly, however, and contem-
poraneocsly w itn the growth of the scientific
habit, another theory has gained credit. They
hold now on earth that the life of the other world
will be spent by ail in the contemplation of
the S3 unveiled mysteries of nature and being
which we conld not penetrate under the condi
tion of mortality.’
‘But spent thus by all ?’ echoed the apparitor.
‘By all,’ replied the M. C.
‘By all,’ reiterated the country gentleman,
manfully.
•Really, gentlemen,’said the apparitor, laugh
ing, ‘you wili excuse my amusement, but this
strange theory of the common employment ot
spirits, leads to such extraordinary reknits. Pray,
are all men gifted on earth with common tastes,
dispositions, capacities and curiosities ?'
‘No, bat—‘
•N), but wla* ?‘ interrupted our guide, still
with diffijalty restraining his laughter. ‘Take
an ordinary man of business—say, for instance,
a sugar broker, of middle age, who rides into
the city every day by omnibus and returns at
5 p. m. to his couatiy villa. Do you suppose
that at any period of nis life he cared a bill—
s amp about the masteries of nature and being ?
And if he never cared about them in his life,do
jou contend that he will begin to do so because
the omnibus seat was damp one rainy morning,
and he caught a cold, whi**i unfortunately set
tled on his lungs wi h a t'ujxl result?* »’
Tne M. C. clearly could not contend this, and
remained silent.
•You do not argue that he would,’ continued
the apparitor. ‘It comes to this then, that the
solution of these mysteries is yonr ideal of a fu
ture life, and is therefore to b3 the future state
for everybody.’
‘Not mine only,’ replied the M. C., somewhat
warmly. ‘It is the ideal of the best minds of
manhood and its baffled struggles, all shall be
to you as though they had never been. There
shall be no past to you, neither shall the pres
ent become hereafter a conoious past, but every
moment as it flies shall be to you henoeforth as
though it had never been. Neither shall the u-
ture seem to you a future since ye shall know
not any past; but ye shall live for ever in the
eternal—‘Now.’ What say ye?'
Again the murmur arose from the kneeling
crowd:
Give us to drink!’
The spirit with the goblet paused a moment,
and then resumed in a lower voice:
‘Hear also of the memories which must pass
from you, as you drink and look yonr last upon
them, ere ye raise the cup. Ye shall no more
remember kiss of woman or laughter of chil
dren, or the face of friends. If there be any vis
ion of seen beauty, or any echo of heard music,
that visits y*u in the reverie by day or in the
dream by night—they shall visit you no more
for ever. The dim, sweet time of childhood, the
abounding life of youth, the won viotories of
manhood, the memories that quicken the pulses,
and th6 memories that fill the eyes, shall stir or
soften you no more. The very bonds that bind
you to yourselves sha 1 he forever solved; the
voice within yon that answers to your own shall
be for ever dumb. Yon shall never more utter
with awe, and wonder the words of mystery,
“This is I.” What say ye?’
And the answer stili arose more faintly from
the spirit crowd:
‘Give us to drink ’
•Look then your last,’ exolaimed the spirit,
‘on the treasures you surrender, ere they leave
your souls for ever.’
And he waved his hands thrice above their
heads.
Then we, standing near and seeing all things
in that light of the other world, conld gaze as
the spirita gaz3d on the bright procession which
defiled slowly before the eyes of each. And we
saw plainly how each one wavered in his pur-
ALMOST A FATAL STEP
-OR-
The Heirs of the Mil
lionaire.
poae.
Upon one the memories of childhood press
ed with the strongest foroe. His nostrils were
filled with the smell of field flowers, and his ears
with the echo of boyish games; and he felt again
the child’s joy at running watsrs, and his won
der at the high white clouds, and his awe at the
whisper of great trees. And from amidst the
procession of the threhging days one stole out,
and held bis softening gazs before all the rest.
It was the June half-holiday he had never ex
pected, when he lay till sunset under the
shadow of the old bridge, and listened to the
mill-wheel, and watched the darting trout, and
*aw the great otter that he never could get sight
of again.
Another gazed longest upon his youthful days,
end lived again these hours when mere life was
like s draught of wine, when beauty was more
beautiful, and mirth more mirthful than in the
after time, and there was a strange light upon
all things - and the world, with the terrors and
splendors of its sea and skies, began to speak to
him with other and new voices, and poetry arose
and touched him, and unsealed bis eyes.
And another was held by the strong memories
of manhood, and stood with bra’ing heart and
flashing eyes, before the long line of days of en
dured toil, and trampled obstacle and affronted
danger, and the one proud hour of crowned
endeavor.
And one by one, as the memories gathered
and clung round them, the dumb stealing water
grew hateful to them, and they trembled, wav
ered and arose. Three only remained—two
who knelt together, and one who knelt apart.
Around the solitary spirit there had crowded
no bright forms of past years, but only the dull
grey days of neglected childhood, and a vainly
manhood,
‘you would settle the character cf the f atnre
state by a vote of twe-thirds ot the ratepayers.
You would carry the ‘tyranny of majorities’ be
yond the grave.*
The M. 0. was too indignant to reply becom
ingly to this last sneer.and thought it host to keep
silence. The artist, v ho had paid noattenticn to
this discussion, but whose eyes had been fixed
on the line of rocks to our right, here struck
in.
‘What rocks are these? 1 he inquired.
‘That spot,’ sdd the apparitor, smiling with a
trace of bitterness, ‘is the spot whither so many
spirits<go, and whence so few have the strength
to bring back that which they went to seek-
oblivion• Yonder amongst these rocks lie the
grotto and spring of Lathe, the fountain-head
of the dark river of forgetfulness.*
'Few bring back oblivion from its waters!* re
peated the poet, in a tone of surprise; ‘surely I
mistook yon! Is there not, then many a wretched
spirit who thi sts for tte draught that will drug
memory t > sleep for evei?‘
‘Many thirst for it, - ea : d the apparitor, drily,
‘but few drink it. But coma and see for your
selves. ‘ And he pointed to a side gate of the
prison, which was at that moment thrown open,
and to a suull group of spirits is uing from it,
and hurrying wilily and with passionate ges
tures towaads the rocks.
We followed them as speedily as we were able,
and after clambering up the neirest span of
rock and descending a cup-like hollow on its
inner side, we saw the spirits one by one stoop
and disappear through a low and narrow arch
way in a sheer opposing wall of stone' We en
tered after them, and found ourselves in a lofty
vaulted cavern, open to the day at the farther
end, wnere, through an archway thrice the
breadth and height of that by which we had en
tered, the light poured towards us aloDg the
black aDd dripping walls.
Ia the midst ofthe grotto floorrose the spring
of Lethe from a natural basin of jiggsd olivt-
g een rock. The wa‘eras it t verbrimme! t le edge.
Had scoopea a deep aad sinuous channel across
the cavern, aad flawing continually towards the
aperture at the farther end, leaped down a stair
of twenty feet to the open air and light below.
But the marvel of the water was its strange ma
im, and its dnlness and its Bilence. Tnougb
the light from the open side of the grotto fell
full upon it and it was in rapid movement, no
single ray was splintered by a single ripple; the
surface of the stream was crossed by no flash or
corruscation, as is the way of earthly waters un
der the dayltght; but it flowed on, smooth, grey,
and unbroken, like dull molten metal. Also it
r< s? a id flowed out of the cavern continually
«i.hout the faintest plash or murmur. Silentlv
it welled up from the black depths, in silence it
over! rimmed the jagged margin of the spring,
in silence it stole across the grotto floor, and
slid stealthily over the top of the fall,—nay, even
when they had taken their leap down to the
platform twenty feet below no sound came back
to us from the alighting waters. The mysteri
ous sight filled us witn tne deepest awe.
B • the side of the spring, on a seat hewn from
the rock, sat a spirit of solemn aspect, holding
a stone goblet in his hand.
The spirits turned towards him, and pros
trated themselves before him at the water's
edge.
‘Give ns to drink!' they cried.
The spirit with tne goblet slowly filled it with
the grey soundless water, and rose to his feet.
•Ye who would drink of this water.’ he said,
in measured solemn tones, ‘near the good and
the evil that await those who drink. For those
who drain this goblet, memory is no more. As
ye drink, the haunting shadows of the past life
shall fade and disapptar for ever. Remorse of
committed crime, and sting of suffered injury,
and agony of hopeless love—childhood and the
terrors of childhood, youth and its lying hopes,
WfS gsz-
ing still witn unsuasen purpose at the wa'er of
forgetfulness, and stretched his hand out for the
cup. Bat even to him at last there emerged
from the sad procession, radiant as a strayed an
gel in the ranks cf the lost, the vision of a sin
gle day; and he filt again the sof touch of a
hand, and heard the whisper of a voica, and re
membered a forgotten vcw of eternal remem
brance. Then ho also arose and turned his back
upon the hateful water, and the other two were
left kneeling alone.
They were man and wife, bound together for
time and eternity by the pledge of a common
crime.
The day of its commission had arisen before
their eyes when the spirit waved his hand, but it
passed not on with the other days, but remain
ed motionless before them—a firm of fierce and
blinding light! And whatever bright daj s were
in the procession, either before or after, must
needs pass in front of the motionless Day; and
as they came within its light their own was
quenched, and they passed before the eyes of
the kneeling spir ts, grey and ashen.
Th; S3 two wavered not at all; bat the man
stretched out his hand eagerly, and taking the
goblet from the spirit raised it to Lis lips; but
as he turned he looked at the woman and their
eyes met. Then for a moment the motionless
Day ceased to quench all things with its blind
ing light, and their laces reflated back noon
e ch other the soft 3weet radience of the days
before the crime. But with a pang of bitter eff jrt
no wrested his gaze from hers, and drained the
gold goblet to the bottom; aDd then the woman’s
face was awful, until the goblet had been filled
again, and she too had drunk the water.
Then when again their eyes met they knew
each other not, nor did they know anything
around, either spirits like themoelves or the
other objec‘s of the spirit world, nor were they
conscious of themselves, since each moment
swept from them and was forgotten ere they c )uld
say -It is I who think.’ Nor could their counte
nances be compared to anything that lives—
either beast, or man, or idiot for all these
have memory of s imething. And es they s ole,
from the grotto we drew aside from them
trembling, and hid our faces from the awful
vacancy of their eyes.
TO BE CONTINUED
Chased Nine Miles by a Locomotive.
Jim Wyatt glories in the ownership of a hoist
that can beat the Central Railroad’s bast sched
ule time. Lust Friday night he mounted a negro
on the animal in qu*s ion and sent him to Live-
joy on an errand. Returning, he was overtaken
oy the eleven o’clock through freight, which so
frightened the horse that he became perfectly
wild, and throwing his rider, struck ou, down
the ra lroad track like a streak of greased light
ening, with the rapidly advancing train close
upon his heels. The engineer sounded the
alarm whistle, opened the steam-cocks, and did
everything else to frighten the already terrified
animal from the track, but failed. He then
pulled the throttle wide opeD, thinking to over
take and knock him eff, but Pegasus gathered
fresh strength as the object of his terror ap-
p oached, and, letting himself out, soon left
the locomotive far in the rear. The race con
tinued until Sunny Side was rescued, when
he left the track, having run the entire dis auce
(nearly nine miles) in less than forty minutes,
and beating the train by several car-leDgths.
This statement, incredltable as it may seem, is
actually true, and will be vjuched for by reli
able witnesses, the engineer among the number.
‘What’s de time o’ day, o!e ’oman ?‘ said a
colored countryman to Aunt Miliy, yesterday,
trying to poke fun at the brass chain that held
her front-door key around that young lady's
neck. ‘Look at de town dock, chile; dat's built
for po’ folks. ‘
‘Nannie, dear,’ said Hal, the morning after Evan-
galineg visit, ‘you know how many years we hare
wondered, and speculated, and guessed what sort
of a girl she might be. this unknown Evangeline
Earle. Now that you have seen her, tell me what
you think of her.’
Nannie choked down her repugnance and an
swered gently:
‘ She is very beautiful Hal. Your fairy princess,
you used to talk about, cou'd not be more so.’
‘Ah, yes; every one must acknowledge that.
But her inim t iblt-J^race of msrner, her cnarm n-
ingenuousness, her wonderful freedom from wor.d-
liness, when she has been all her life so cosmopo
lite. It is those which I admire most. Is it not
so with you ?
‘ 1 have not seen her but once, you know, dear
Hal. I cannot judge so hastily,’ replied Nannie,
gently.
‘ But you will love",her when you knew her.
You are certain of that, are yiu not, Nannie?'
She was silent a moment. Too truthful to reply
by deliberate falsehood, she was searching for some
innocent method of evasion.
•I am very glad that you are so happy rnd sat
isfied, Hal,’ said she at length ; ‘you may be sure
that no one rejoices at that more ihan I. Now let
us turn back to the house.’
‘Not yet. If you are tired, come into the arbor
and eit down. I have something to tell you; and
in the comm jncement 1 want to ask you for charity
and forgiveness.’
Her blue eyes dilated with wonder.
‘ There is nothing you could do, Ilal, 1 think,
absolutely nothing, which I would not cheerfully
forgive.’
‘ But this is some one else, dear. I am asking
you not to be augiy with Evangeline.’
‘ Evangeline Earle,! Has she confessed her hos
tility ? Wuat do you mean, Hai ?' spoke Nannie,
too startled to be guided in her choice of words.
‘ Hostility 1 Evangeline confess hostility ! When
the sweet girl is absolutely , anic-stricken at the
thought of losing, or rather never obtaining your
friendship. Why Nannie, it is I who hould ques
tion your meaning."
Nannie bit her lips nervously, but it was impos
sible to unsay the words.
‘Perhaps 1 hardly know what I meant myself.
But your words were certainly very startling. 1
wish you would speak clearly.’
«I will,’ replied Hal, a little angrily. ‘ Miss
Earle came to me a little while ago. She rode over
thus early in the morning to beg my intercession
with you, though you could not blame*her one hall'
so much as she does herself She lost that ring
she borrowed of you, Nannie.’
‘Lost my mothers ring? The only tokon, the
only clue 1 hold to my unknown relations! No,
no, I cannot believe it,’ exclaimed Nannie in a be
wildered tone. And in a moment more, losing all
command of herself, she burst forth impetuously :
‘She took it when she went away, and sne rode
directly to her home. How could she have lost it?
1 don’t believe it 1 Sne has a reason o: her own
for taking it and she did not mean I should ever
see it again.’
‘ Nannie,’ exclaimed Hal sternly, ‘ how dare you
in my presence, too? Ho you know what a wicked
thing you are saying?’
Nannie burst into tears.
‘I know that I am miserable:’ she exclaimed in
a quivering voice. ‘Let me go away. 1 shall net-
ter know »ov mare pence Omit 1 do.’
•Nannie, Nannie, what evil, perverse spirit has
taken possession of you? You are ungenerous,
ungrateful, and resentful. You would feel shock
ed and ashamed could you understand how deeply
Evangeline ieels your coldness; how she drsais
your anger at this unfortunare accident, tjhe
brought me a dozen rings, every one worth more
than the paltry thing you accuse her of stealing,
and begged me to give them to you in slight atone
ment for this loss. She knew you better than 1,
it seems, she said you would be unforgiving.’
‘A paltry thing! My dead mother’s wedding
ring, which was my grandmother's first- a paltry
thing!’ repeated Nannie, with curling lips, stung
only by that one expression, in all he had said.
‘It shall be found, if 1 move the whole tower to
do it 1 returned Hal, hotly, ‘or you will be accus
ing my beautiful Evangeline, before other people
of beiug a thief.’
•You will not find it. But let it pass. I can
bear its loss. I have learned mmy things within
the laet few hours.’
•The sting of the thing is that I cannot replace
it 1 muttered Hal, stamping his feet into the moist
earth; ‘if money won d only do it, 1 would compel
her to be satisfied. Yet one would think afier ail
these years of protection and bounty, I need not
fee' eo—’
Thus far he spoke and no farther. Nannie flung
herself into his arms with a wild sob.
‘No, no. I am not so ungrateful. Do not think
it, Hal, do no*, believe if I would do anything no
m’alter’how hard and cruel, anything to prove now
I realize the great debt I owe to you and your
mother. I would crush my own happiness uu
sparingly if I could add to yours.'
*1 do not ask anything so tragical of you, Nan
nie,’ replied Hal, a little coldly, for her whole de
meanor wa? a profound mystery to him. ‘I only
desire that you will look upon this in a rational
manner, and that you will give to my betrotnt d
wife the respectful treatment and esteem which
she deserves, if you refuse the affection she wins
from others- Tnat much I have surely the rigut
to claim. I do not wish to see her grieved, as sue
was yesterday by your coldness.’
Nannie drew herself away from his still encirc
ling arm.
•You shall not have causa to cunplain again, Hal,'
said she in a thick, si'ffocated voice, and xu spue
of his remonstrances fled away from him into tne
house. .
Nannie locked her chamber door, and sinking
upon her knees by the bedside, buri- d her face in
the pillows. A wan, weary, sorrowful face it was.
‘I think we are all under an evil spell. We who
were so trusting and happy, and harmonious. But
he is ri*ht. I owe them too rnuett to refuse to con
quer this involuntary horror of that girl. Tuey
shall have no further cause of Complaint, thougn
the mask of hypocrisy crush out my very life, hue
shall not triumph over me, 1 will rival Her io seem
ing gaiety and ‘merriment. 1 never knew before
that there was so much pride ia my nature, but 1
feel now that I can rely upon it. Hal, you shall
never guess what agony you have inflicted upon
one who would, die any time to save you from
harm.’
Before she had yet arisen from her knee3 there
came a knock at her door, and Mrs. Halstead s
gentle voice:
‘Namie, dearest, a strange woman is below,
asking to see you. Are you ill, that you have
locked the door ? Shall I send her away ?
‘I cannot see any one,’ replied Nannie. ‘Teil
her I am sick, if you wixl be so good as to made my
excuses for me.’
In a few moments Mrs. Halsteal returned to her
door-
‘The woman is very earnest, Nanzie, She says
she was with your mother when she died. She is
sure you will remember her name. jane Larkin
she calls it. She says she has a few words which
she must say to you, and that she can ill aff rd to
come again- ...
Nannie opened the doo» at the conclusion of
these words.
‘Send her up to me, poor thing; it was cruel in
me to put her off.’
The woman made her appearance immediately
in response to the summons, and hurxied toward
the expectant girl with a face agitated enough, be
tween trepidation and earnest feeling.
‘Ah, and indeed, is this Miss Nannie? If it
were not for your eyes and t em curls I should
never mistrusted it. Ye remember Jane Larkin,
don’t ye? She that lived over your mother’s in
the tenement, and took in the fine starchii g?’
*1 have a faint remembrance of your face, and
am glad to see you. So you have taken pains to
seek me out. That was very good in you-’
‘Oh no; not good, miss, not good at all; only
trying to undo the bad.’
Here Mrs. Larkin’s voice wavered a little, and
she made a movement as if she wanted to fall down
on her knees at Nannie’s feet, only a quick, fright
ened gesture of tha girl's restrained her.
‘ I’ve come to ask your pardon, miss. I’ve come
to make a clean breast of the sin that’s laid so
heavy all these years and never would be afier
lightning, let me do what I would. It was jus.
the blessed luck that showed me where to find ye
Oh, Miss Nannie, 1 have been a poor sinner. The
temptation came, and I just fell before it.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ faltered Nannie.
‘And how should ye, when ye was jest like an
innocent baby? But I’ll tell the whole truth. I
was called in by the neighbors when your mother
died, and I stai 1 and did the whole for her till the
last. 1 was alone with the poor baby, when I saw
a little box in the drawer, and the devil himself
must have tempted me, for when I opened it and
saw a few pieces of silver coin, and some gold trin
kets, I said to myaelf. I’ll take this to pay for
spending my time here, and no one will he the
wiser.’ I don’; wonderyou look so ashamed of me.
1 was ashamed the minute after it was done. But
the folks coming in to see to the putting the body
in the coffin put me out from putting it back, and
I had no chance after it. And 1 could not find the
courage to make a clean breast of it. And ye were
taken care of, and it didn’t seem so hard. And I
let the years slip on and never a word did I say to
any soul, but I kept the box Lid. Bat Judy— that’s
my girl, miss, she s as bright and smart as any
fine lady’s child. She's been to school, and can
read and write right smart I tell you,—she come
across it and read the letter, and sez she, * Mother
how came you by that? It belongs to somebody
who ought to think a deal of it.’ * Why,’ says I,
‘what does it say? And she read it to me, and
then I took my oath that if you could be found
you should have the box. And praise to all the
saims, I’ve kept it! And there's the box, miss,
and I only ax ye to forgive poor Jane Larkin, since
she ha repented of her evil deed. And ye’re sick,
and 1 won t be after disturbing ye any more; but
I wish ye good morning, and walk away with a
clean conscience.’
She thrust into Nannie’s hand a dingy, time
worn box of diminutive sm, gave a series of odd
liitte courtesies and walked out of the room and
out of the house.
Nannie satin spe ichless astonishment, ui h a
mingling of thrilling awe, something like the emo
tion witn which one wc uld receive a message from
’he grave.
It was indeed of a kindred nature. For the yel
low paper which fell from the box, as she me-
t hanica'ly raised the cover, was in her mother’s
Hand-writing, directed ‘ To my Daughter.’
On, the long, pitiless years, and the more mys
terious, inexorable gulf which lay between that
living hour, when the feeble fingers had traced the
characters, and this one when the daughter’s eyes
firs* rca<l tUo rrords. nod received the startling in
telligence communicited.
Nannie read it through twice, that awed, fright
ened look vanished at last before a fiercer, stronger
emotion.
* It is wonderful! It passes my belief, but for
faith and trust in the kind Providence watching
over me,’ she murmured, clasping her hands, with
the crimson flushes alternately sweeping over her
face, and fading away to a frightful pallor.
‘Most wonderful of all is it that, after these
years of delay, it should arrive'at this time. Moth
er, d ar mother, give your child your holy prayers,
your angel guardian. Sorely indeed will she need
it to see her way dearly through the cloud of be
wilderment.’
Her head dropped forward, her lips moved with
out any audible words, as if in silent prayer.
Inen presently a glow mantled the pale face,
ihe b.ue eyes shone gloriously, a bright, glad smile
broke over the sweet lips.
‘ Hal, Hal, in spite of you I will be your guar
dian angel. I will prove to you that I am not un
grateful. I will repay the debt I owe to you. If
she is worthy, if you love her, it shall not be poor
Nannie who will stand between. Rather will she
secure your happiness for you. And sometime
sometime, it may only be after many years of
chance and change, in some such fashion as this
you shall know the truth, and give me the res
pect you do not now believe my due.’
She looked over the inexpensive trinkets, care
fully examined the labels attached to them, and
selected a ring ef a similar fashion to the one lost
and evidently the work of the same hand, she slip
ped it on her finger.
•Now, Miss Evangeline Earle, I have a test by
which to try your character beyond a single ques
tion of doubt. If you are innocent of all my
thoughts boldly accuse you, and he still loves you
on better acquaintance, you shall obtain tne rich
prize of Hal Halsteads heart and hand. But if
you are avaricious, crafty, treacherous, beware ! I
bold iu the Hand you despise so heartily, the ma<Hc
spell to dash you down from your proud height.
How marvellous it seems! Poor little Nannie can
hold her head >r c, now, however her heart may
grieve.’
Making Her Own Dresses.
The following letter deserves the attention of
our girl readers:
‘I thiDk God or Nature intended me for a
dressmaker, for neither of my grandmothers
nor my three aunts (one on my fathers side
two on my mother's) ever made their own
dresses, and I‘ve often heard my mother say
‘she would as soon think of building a ship as
of making a dress, and cercaioly would rather
go without one than to try.* I began by dress
ing my doll babies in ‘style.* Then when I was
twelve years old, mam ms. gave me a striped silk
dress ot hers, saying it would help in dressing
dollies for my little sisters for Christm s. °
took it, ripped it, and washed it and pressed it.
Then made a sacque from a Dsmorest pattern
and a flounced skirt, and I wore it many times
with mamma s consent. I ve made many dresses
'or myself and little sisters since, and even one
for mamma, who ia very particular. I am now
eighteen. I went a few days since to get a
dress made, but the dressmaker could not make
it at ODce, and I don't like to wait, so I came
h me, looked over the many patterns sent with
the Demorest numbers, and with the aid of
those and the tracing wheel and patience have
cut and fitted my dress. ‘
‘Can you tell me where the wicked boys eo
who fiih on Sunday?* asked a sober-lookiue
gentleman of a little chap who had worms and
rod. ‘Yes; some of ’em goes to the river and
them as is very wicked goes to the lake Ifil
show you the best place at the lake. ‘
INSTINCT PRINT