Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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