Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

J ri BARBARA; — OB,— The Painter’s Study. BX MABX PATTON HUDSON. •throwing over* her honest nephew, Stephen for handsome aood-for-naught of a painter. She went slowly down the garden walk be tween the cinnamon rose-vines, her band dai tilv bolding her gingbam robe from oflthedew- laden grass. The dyirg son i« Paying h»J®- and-seek through gorgeous clouds; the catalpa is making ghostly shadows across the lawn leads to the country-house. A field lark is tu ning his last song, rtffling bis brown and yel low feathers in final triumph over a sparrow s less musical cry. But Barbara noted none of these things. She had seen the sun set behind the far-off forest top full many a time before, to her it was a disgustingly old and P 108 ^ 1 ® sun, so satisfied with its monotonous ups downs. The noble old catalpa had CMt its shadow’s length a hundred times before, the iour-o'clc';k8 P bad conducted themselves m the self-same way since sSe was a lntle chiid and delighied in their prophecies of the day. The cinnamon roses were always sweetie now. but she cared nothing lor the subtility of Then: incense. She was tired. Tired of everything— “A vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast.'* There was a pale tea-rose in her hair^a-fact which led brave Stephen Dare to think 6he yet cared something for his gilts and that her •queerness’ was going away and her old sell coming back. But Stephen was mistaken. She bad picked the rose herself, a counterpart of the one be had placed on her dressing table. She mechanically fastened it in her sun-bright braids; she cared nothing for it and forgot it instantly. It was a custom of hers to wear flow ers and that was all. The tall and graceful fig ure of the young man was leaning full against the old apple tree, while he watched Barbara, thinking how ineffably sweet she was and ‘weaving fancies of the good time coming,’ when she would he his wife and the queen of that little cot that he was meaning to build un der the hill, where she used to love to sit in summer days and dream the hours away. See ing the rose in her hair had made the wistful ness leave for a little while his open brow and summoned back the old sweet hope for which he had lived and worked so long. He watched her stop in the pathway and pettishly tear a rose-brier from her dress. He watched her turn a pair of troubled eyes toward the sunset sky and compress a pair of rosy lips. •I hate him ! I hate his fine wayB that have caused all this change in my darling !’ He set the white teeth together in sudden wrath. Springing over the fence he started across the garden to the rose path and, then, as quickly sprang back again and went over the meadow way to the little grove to bring the horses home. ‘Bonnie Doon’ no longer startled the leaf shel tered birds, for the minstrel had a shadow on his heart that he could not drive away. Bar bara bad fled from the house in a fit of morbid dissatisfaction. She had grown to hate the smart red ingrain carpet in the best room; the dimity curtains and painted deal ohairs. She despised the hideous blue vases, that held the gaudy flowers overtop. She hated the picture of long, lank Washington, with his unending 'weskit, ’ that hung above the mantel-tree. Aunt Mima was so tall and straight-backed too, so methodical, so given to proverbs and the making of golden bntter. The honse was so desperately clean and orderly ! Sne grew up among all these things and she erstwhile loved them well, and life seemed like the opaline skj the distant hills. She had not much opinion of -picture people, * but the fact was simply this: she made beatfti- ful bntter, got a fancy once for it, and, having never been a wife and mother, had wed herself to the domestic ‘profession,* allowing nothing to come in its way. She took the orphaned Barbara to save her from the poor-house, wh6n her young mother died of grief for the loss of her husband, who was killed in a quarry ex plosion a few weeks before. They were proud and ‘set up* in their ways, said the simple- mannered neighbors, none knowing whither they came and almost afraid to ask. The name •Barbara* was bestowed on the baby because it was found written on some linen that belonged to the mother, and B. Brown in a plain gold ring, that they kept for the child when her mother was laid away. Aunt ‘Mima supposed that SteDhen and her foster-child would some time become joint owners of all she had to leave, but butter makiDg was such fascinating work she really had no time to trouble her brain about dying or the possible heirship. The ‘Prince 4 had not been to the tarm for sev- eral days, and Stephen the faithful was begin ning to hope that there had been some provi dential taking eff, he cared not much of what character, when he saw Barbara in the rose walk with the tender trouble in her sweet eyes and the little flower in her shining hair. But the wizard, Saxe, had not taken himself and enchantments away from the vicinage of Stephen Dare‘s sweetheart, for there he came, in that graceful way of bis, twisting a little cane about his head and caroling a , b,t . sen. ‘I suppose,’thought Stephen bitterly, t a Barbara will blush and tremble and let the vil lain clasp her hand and stare In her innocent face.’ He ground his heel in the sand to the great astonishment of old Dobbin who looked satisfied enough with the state of things over there in the rose-walk, where the ‘pioture man was greeting the gentle maiden in whose be half the late beloved was so distraught Ste phen wished that a wind, equally as destructive as that which came “out of the sea, Chilling and killing Annabel Lee,” might overtake the interloper, but thro gs pros pered with him, nevertheless, as they often do with the wicked. The worst thing about the ‘picture man’ was, perhaps, his contemptuous oversight of Stephen’s claim on the maiden, all the circumstances having been made known to him by Cecily Armstrong. 'He can have her again when I am gone,’ he coolly thought and dismissed all further cogitation on the subject. The field lark grew tired of waiting on the el der bough, and never saw the gold-brown eyes, when they flashed a welcome on the ‘conquer ing hero’ when he came. ‘I have been sick, Mignonette, I could not come before. Am I welcome now, tell me truly, queen of the rosebuds? May I have this token of yonr pleasure that I am here? She held her bright head for him to detach the little rose, and white lids drooped over mar velous eyes, while the red lips quivered a little monrnfully. „ , •Gods! could I paint this tenderness, said the cruel-hearted man of the world, ‘that Zona might see it too.’ ... But this W8S all inward, yon know, and the foolish, trusting Barbara could not see within; had no eyes for aught save the witchery of his O, innocent maidenhood ! May the angels keep better watch, draw stronger bars twixt thee and all heartless beguilement. When the stars came out Barbara led the way to the house, for Aunt Mima was jealous of im proprieties, and had given strict commands to Baibara to sit always in the little poroh with the that the sun had l®ft above the distant emit , j tnr _ X an • L and *>ie du-kv-eyed'^msel bad-be^q^s, ^Sod-iTiglif.'and' goo*-bye & t o butteVflies tbad toyed with the ciunamoiur| aw 2 y B to . morrow . ^ wi , roses. The countrywide folks seemed so proud of her too, and said there was none to compare with Barbara Groves, with her wonderful eyes and ripe red cheeks and sunny hair; an opin ion fully concurred in by Stephen Dare, to whom she had pledged her troth and whose lit tle gold ring she wore. Bat the 'Prince came out of the west’ into her little world and by his •fine ways,’ as Stephen called them, had pnt all sorts of foolishness into her head; aye, had stolen the heart out of her bosom and bewitched her with his misty adulation. She was ner vous, impulsive and imaginative and he had so wrought upon her senses by his silly idyls, that she believed in nothing but his prating, and was blindly willing to do and to be all that he said. He was an ideal Launcelot and hardly a mortal at all, so enthralled was she by his poet ical wooing. Stephen Dare was a plain, honest hearted fellow, worth a ten acre lot of such film brained fellows as Saxe Savoye and when he said, ‘Barbara, my darling, I love you and when I have built the nest under the little hill will vou come ?’ she blushed rosily and without coquetry said enough to confirm the blissful hope on whioh he had wrought bis future plans. It had ail satisfied her then, and the starlings were not happier than she, when he came to sit with her in the moonlit porch when the eve ning work was done. Saxe Savoye, like Mephis- topbiles in the play, came like a shadow across her sunshine one day, tired he said, and would be glad to have some water. Had been sketch ing on the hillside and would rest a little while. Hie artistic eye was caught by the girl’s rare beauty and graoetul mein and he forthwith made her a ‘studv. ’ That was all; but what discriminating powers had this simple girl wherewith to protect herself from this well-as sumed sinoerity. The world he lived in was not hers and the tales he unfolded were fairy dreams. He praised her beauty and she was intoxicated with his warmth; be loved to watoh the blushes rise and fall in the perfect face; he said he saw in sleep the rare-brown eyes with their smouldering fire and would have given all he possessed to be able to transfer their glory to oanvasB. He flattered her poetic taste and said that the world would be proud of her tal ents. while he fixed his eyes upon her, as a bas ilisk might have dono, when he talked to her and poor, foolish Barham, not knowing in the least what he meant, believed that he was good and truo and it changed the singing current of her pleasant life and made all former jo s seem but coarse and mean deli .his. He talked ceramics and raved of beautiful dis orders in household things until sae was well- nigh driven mad with Aunt Jemima’s primness and systematic ways. ‘Lawkey me ! what ails the child?’that lady would cry, when she saw the ohairs set awry in the best room, and forth with Diace trem in straight rows along the wall. Then’Barbara would sigh and go awav to the reading of Lookaley Hall, or Aurora Leigh, or to watching for the ‘Prince’ when the sun was low. By and bye Stephen Dare forsook the frout porch and left bis pure-hearted daisy there in the glamour of the painter's enchantment. He spoke to her once about this stranger, but the girl's lip enrled as she turned disdainfully away and he never repeated the offence. Bat the great heart was no less weary with its grief, and he fain would have gathered the erring child to his bosom and shielded her from all the machinations that lay before her. Aunt ‘Mima noticed nothing. She thought it very well for Barbara to have the society of the gay young stranger, and he was nothing more, though the Armstrong's said he was a gentle man and they were excellent people, He oould teach her many things she did not know. And ha did. and likewise things she bad no need to knew Aunt ‘Mima would have bean shocked and troubled had she known how Barbara Mignonette. ’Tam going away to-morrow. 1 will send you those books and pictures from the city, and you will hear from me, little one. I can hardly goaway , the summer has been like a pleasant dream. He pressed her hand and was gone. But for the hope of his speedy return,as he had promised poor Barbara would have sickened and died, but young life is bouyant, and hopes multiplied as hours went by, and the tender heart was full of birds, and flowers, and flashing brooks of love’s own making. Stephen Dare was always the same to his late betrothed; he never spoke to her except in the gentle way, but his heart was sore with its grief. She had drifted away from his common-place life, and into a land of mist, but she seemed well content with it yet, for hope is not aweary. She laid the little gold riDg in his hand one day, and he, without a word, dropped it into his pocket and walked away. They were polite to each other; he was as mindful as ever of her comfort, forgot nothing that she used to like, though the smiles for his pains were lacking. Day after day when he eame home from the village office, he saw the eager flush in her eyes, that died away when there was no message for her from the ‘Prince,’ who had seemed so full of pain at. the parting, but now had clearlj forgotten her. Days glided into weeks, weeks into months. The ‘prince came not, neither did he send her token of his remembrance. Wan and sad she grew. Every change well noted by the faithful lover, who would have let the life-blood out of his brawny arm to make her happy. , She faded day by day and still the ‘prince oame not, nor sent her assurance of his stead fastness. To be sure he had not asked Barbara to be his wife, and he, worldly wise, though dis honorable that he was—laid this fact to his heart —if he had one—though he knew full well that it was the same to her as a betrothal, for he per sistently made love to her—to his profession, he told himself—and she had the right to look up on all he said as evidence of his intention to in stall her as princess in that wonderland, where he, to her thinking reigned supreme. Compensation was at work, bat simple-mind' ed Barbara knew nothing about it, she cared for nothing, thonght of nothing but the ‘prince, who had her heart in his keeping. Stephen Dare saw it all, saw all the straggles in her heart and mind, just as well as if he had been a gnest in the inner sanctuary of her dreamland; but he said not a word, only suffered, and hoped and wai ed, •A wedding in high life.’ Stephen Dare knew nothing about ‘high life’ and oared less, but when politics and agriculture were read, he cas ually turned over to the looal news. Yes, Saxe Savoye ! that was the name of Barbara's ‘prince.’ He was married to one of his kind and never thought twice, perhaps, since he had left her, of the trusting little maiden that he wooed, and whose heart he won, in that sketching jaunt he made in the Armstrong neighborhood. Stephen Dare set bis teeth hard together while he wrapped the paper about with a strip and wrote Barbara’s name thereon. He dropped it in the office for her to get, she meant to ride that very evening to the village for annt Jemima. He felt guilty and cold about the heart, when he saw her walk listlessly into the honse, and go straight to her little room. •Where's the Times this week, Stephen? said Annt M im «h and hypooritical Stephen answered: ‘I have missed it once or twice lately, ‘I’ll see that it does not ooour again.’ There were no more songs in the country house, no merry laughing voice; all was changed and Stephen was changing too. He looked sometimes in the little miiror to see if his hair was not whitening with his grief, but white do not always follow sorrow, or are its in- sionia whan they oome. But he still waited; he was used U waiting, and the angel of patience was his safeguard against the final sickness that deferred hope may sometimes give. Was he not father, mother, all to the little Barbara, for, what, with butter-making, and the many things that went to make the grand total of annt Jemima’s life, she had no time for spec ulation as to the child’s spiritual needs, but Stephen knew it all, and yearned over her with exceeding oare. The holy Christmas eame and brought Barbara a delicate chain of gold and a locket from Stephen. She received them and flashed hotly, though why, Stephen could not just divine. Bat conscience is an accusing spirit, and told the girl of her great nnworthiness of this, and all the kindness he heaped upon her. Down eame the snow on the New Year. Jin gle, jiDgle, the songs of the hells, as lads and iasses harried b}\ •Barbara, will you ride with me? Craven and Tally-ho are all impatience.’ She blushed again, when be tucked the robe about her just as he used to do in the old days, when she was his promised bride. He talked of everything, just.as he used to do, except the one thing that lay nearest that strong brave heart of his. , The color rose and fell in Barbaras face, and her eyes flashed -rs-bit, as their sleigh passed all the others in the race. •Thank yon, Stephen, I have had a pleasant time,' with more spirit than she had shown since the ‘Prince had ppne away. Like one just rVtising from a long and well nigh fatal iilnessijbfaith eame slowly back to Barbara's life^^ftphen’s tastes were consulted onoe again, and by degrees the song of the old days were heard as she went about her work, •Barbara, your old friend, Mr. Savoye, is at the Armstrong’s. Will you go to see his bride?’ Stephen said this firmly, looking squarely in the somewhat startled face. ‘Yes, Stephen, if yon please. And Stephen, I can say now when that toolish passion is over, that 1 am ashamed of it all, and I wish that re pentance could wash it out from my life, and yours. I owe it to you to say this, even be it late, and when,'A sob, ‘yon find some one’ sob No. 2, ‘to love yon more faithfully than I did,’ sob No. 3 ‘I’—but Stephen hushed the words with tears in his-loving eyes, ‘I care for nothing bnt you, Barbara, will you wear it again?* handing her the little ring. ‘I am not worthy in the least,’she murmured, albeit she hid a blushing and happy face in his bosom. _ . , ‘We will never mention it again, Barbara, and they never did. * " Stephen Dare, with a dignity that proved him the peer of any man, greeted Mr. Savage, and congratulated him on his marriage. Barbara was wonderfully self-possessed, far more than the recreant artist lover, who well nigh forgot bis ‘Zona’ for her sweet face. The visit was pleasant enough, yet Barbara was glad to get awjay. ‘The wood-nymph is more than my fancy painted her, Saxe, and I fancy you were oheck- mated in that quarter, my good fellow. The ‘Artist's Dream’ ’ (the name he gave his pietnre of the rosepath with Barbara walking through) ‘is a brave reality. Aye, you lords of creation, never know till you’ve tried them what coquet ry there is in woman,' and the city belle unloosed her golden hair, till it rippled down, a shining m a8s to where a bit ot sunshine lay, and lent an “tra touch of brightness, that delighted the ar- ti s t’s eye, and made him say: •If I could bnt paint the color, Zona, bnt I’ll f ai l, as I did to catoh the gbry of Barbara’s eye 8, ,, t ,, DESDICHADO, omancj CHAPTER VI. Sir Blondel was surprised at the new lodging into whioh he was conducted. A large gather ing hall it appeared which, though strongly re sembling a prison on account of its bolts and bars, yet wore an air of comfort with its easy furniture and large open windows, through whioh the pleasant breeze and sunshine were admitted. The poor knight in his delirium of happiness, turned and thaDked his captors, as though they had done him some service, and when they had departed he sat down to deliber ate and prepare for the conflict, until attracted by the waning light, he strayed to the window and gazed on the distant lanscape, for the great width of the window walls prevented his look ing below. i While he stood thus, wrapt in thought, a voice soft, but clear, rose in the fall melody of song, and pierced at once the dungeon and heart of the captive. ‘Blondel,’ he murmured to himself, ‘Blondel, my brother of song, there is but one voioe in England that can produce such strains,’ and then as the minstrel’s song fell more clearly on the oaptive’s ear. it awakened a flood of memory when the smile of beauty and the laugh of wit had hushed, spell bound by the fascination of that singer. As soon as the minstrel Blondel paused, the captive Blondel took up the song and flinging his foil rich n >tes from out the prison walls, sent a thrill of joy into the heart of the minstrel who thus at last learned the long sought abode of his patron, and who struck up an anthem of trinmph in which the captive caught the sounds of his deliverance. The minstrel's notes grew fainter and fainter until they died in the distanoe, bnt they left within the oaptive’s breast an echo of hope, and with the piety of a Christian knight he knelt down, and having thanked God for blessing him with the favor of Beringeria, he pleaded with heaven to bless his fond anticipations, crown his efforts with success, and effect their deliver ance. Then rising again he reflected: ‘I mast collect strength to s' rike for heaven and my lady,’ and, With this resolution, he drop ped upon his ooncn.und into the land of mem ory. —I •Blessed,’ he reflected in himself, ‘with the love of this fairest, gentlest creature of earth and all through my own merits. She does not sus pect my position, she loves me for myself and I will live and die for her.’ And with this resolve he fell asleep, and did not awake an til the snn had risen high in the heavens and sent a flood of light into the room. He ate his morning meal, after whioh an offioer entered and informed him that he would be privileged to take air and exercise, provided he wonld pledge himself to refrain from any effort to escape, until after his combat with Videmar. Having agreed to this condition, the offioer un locked a heavy outer door, and showed Sir Blon del into a garden, where he found pleasant walks and bowers, and from whence as soon as he was alone, he soanned each orevioe of the castle hop ing to oatch a glimpse of his lady’s face, bnt his scrutiny was in vain, for save the frowning ram parts and mossy stones, he saw nothing except the eyes of two sentinels who glared at him from their stations, and who, notwithstanding his pledge,had been placed there to watoh bis every action. Each day the physioian oame to treat his wound, whioh healed rapidly, and a few days of aotive exercise restored the strength to bis limbs and the rnddy glow upon his cheek. Mean while as the knight, was. scanning each aper ture of the oastle to see the princess, Berenge- ria was Holding her leal reoeption with the griz zly tyrant of the prorinoe. The prinoess had just lured him into a smile when she nttered something in a low, serious tone, whose import we lost, but which caused Videmar’s expression to instantly change. ‘It can never be, jour highness,’ he affirmed sullenly, "and you lower yonr cause in asking ‘Baron,’ she replied with her ineffable grace, but accompanied by withering disdain, ‘I thought my cause oould go no lower after de scending on you as its adversary.’ ‘And your highness,' he glutted between his teeth, ‘I warn you to beware, or your haughty head will fcow so low by having me for Its ad versary, that it will not rise again.’ He accompanied his threat with a gesture, which If ft no doubt, as to his signifying, her head being lowered on the block. For an in stant her heart was bowed,not from fear, for her breast bad become callous to all emotions of terror, but because she had determined to cast behind her the spirit of defiance and embrace the spirit of policy, and here in the first test her temper had overborne her tact. But quick ly regaining her equanimity, she extenuated in her sweetest accents: ‘Alas my Lord! Iam a weak woman, unable to cope with a warrior of your skill, who should prove my protector instead of oppressor. This appeal conquered the baroa. Just as any one who neverjloved but once, will soften by his idol entwining the thoughts of their hearts as beating only for each other and shutting the cold world outside. 'Aye sweet lady’be answered as he bent over her with the old hungry look in his eyes, ‘but your gentle weakness has all my strength to rest upon You are lonely. A hundred bold hearts beat loyally to your charms and the bravest of them all break without you. ‘Oh my Lord,’ pleaded Berengeria,’ where heaven has strewn some of its attributes in snch profusion, let it not prove that others are withheld. Where its benificence has given such power and splendor let not there be poverty of justice and mercy. Or if the feelings of good will which were instilled at your mother’s knee into your innocent boyhood, Lave been sup planted by pride and passion, iet me restore the germ of humanity in your breast, and though this moment were my last on earth, I should feel that my mission had not altogether been in vain.’ For once the soul of the fierce tyrant was moved. Lady!’ ‘he answered,’ by the memory of my mother, I aver that yonr gentle hand clasped in mine could bring me back from the realms of darkness. Oh! let it be that the evil days of my life have ended, and here raise me to some pur pose and sanctify that purpose by one kiss from yonr pretty lips.’ ‘Baron Videmar,’ answered Berengeria shrink ing back, hut as mnoh as possible, concealing her aversion, ‘we are standing on a precipice, and yon the stronger are nrging me to leap which wonld destroy us both. The vestal vir gin who scattered the sacred fire, were not crim inal as the maiden who bound by no ties.dispen ses her charms for mere vanity or passion. My person is the point of contest between two cla- mants. Respect the right of your rival as you wonld have that rival respeot the right of Baron Virdemar.’ ‘Then,’ responded Veidemar, ‘there is but one way for me to march into yonr favor, and that is over the dead body of this Blondel. ’ ‘Do not, remonstrated Berengeria ‘charge the powers of life and death upon a woman’s favor. For shkme my lord! Say instead there is but one way for yoa to regain your honor, your peace of mind, and that is by redeeming yonr pledge, in as far as you can by doing honorable battle with your captive.’ ‘And when this Blondel is gone’ uroed Vide mar, ‘th“>e is nothing between you/and my- rroW’ *- —~4r - •' *■ ■Baron Videmar,’ replied Berengeria?’ you are like the mariner who in his hour of peril, turns and asks assurance about the winds and waves from the poor bird who is their sport and buffet. You have pledged to BereBgeria, honorable combat and award, Berengeria has pledged her form to your success, and God will award the issue. And now my lord without a claim on yonr consideration, but that interest which our ties entitle me to express, I urge, 1 implore, that as the warrior gets his body in fittest con dition for the fray, so you as a trae knight shall purify yonr soul, to fit it for shriving, should yon full. Let me exert one ennobling influence over your soul, by restoring it to a brief com munion with that God to whom it has so long been a stranger. This potion ot Berengeria which was fnll of sincerity and emotion was accompa nied by that inclination of the head which roy alty adopts to manifest its pleasure that an in terview shall end. Videmar accordingly rose and with a solemnity which became his grim visage, stood for a spell silently and inflexibly as a statute, and in this position let us throw the mantle of charity over a nature which all the viclet’unrestrained passions of a lifetime had corrupted, but whose noble chords responded to those traits of boyish innocence which the princess had reoalled. Then after an instant. Videmar with bowed head and subdued manner went out from the presence of the princess for ever, and ordered that the arrangements for the combat be completed. ’ FORTY YEARS AGO.’’ Drifting Sands from the Mountains and Foot-hills of Northeast Georgia. A Brilliant Romance Based Upon Facts. By G. J. N. WILSON. CHAPTER XI. •My young friend,’ said Mr. Montgomery, re suming his story, ‘I perceive that you are anx ious tor me to oontinue my recital. As directed by the unknown writer of the letter in French, I looked under the door-steps, and there, in a tin box similar to the one that contained the gold, I found the five thousand dollars mention ed, making, in all, six thousand dollars that I have thns received. I have every dollar of the money yet; bnt as soon as the proper time ar rives, I intend to give the entire amonnt to Nel ly to nse as she pleases. Besides this, I have already made a will dividing my estate equally between her and Willie. The thought that she will ever do anything to forfeit my love for her, cannot for one moment, find a resting place in my mind. From the time of the reoeption of the last mys terious letter, two more years passed, and the unknown child had grown to be a beautiful girl of twelve summers. Daring all this time she bad never caused any one to suffer by miscon duct on her part, nor do I remember that I ever saw her In an ill humor. The soul of honor, obedience, affection and all those other endear ing qualities, she was the idol of all who knew her, and the pride of onr family. We loved her as we loved onrselves, no difference was ever felt in our affections for onr own son and that we bestowea upon Nelly. Though a great trial for ns, we sent her abroad for several years. She attended the best schools and was a welcome gnest in the highest circles of American life;but her absenoe made our home so desolate, that we oould not bear it; and she returned to us. This is the only selfishness ever Bhown in our oonduet towards her, and though it may have deprived her of some advantages, I rejoice to know that she was otherwise the recipient of ev erything that love or money could bestow. Hav ing a clear head and a guileless heart, the rare being upon which we had bestowed so mnoh pains was in the possession of more loveli ness of mind and person than usually falls to to the lot of mortals. Tn the meantime the strange lady of whom I have so frequently spoken, had become a regu lar visitor at my house, frequently staying sev eral days at a time, and sometimes even weeks. She never failed to make herself agreeable, and was always welcome. Her attentions to Neily increased, if possible, with each recurring visit, and her love was sincerely returned. She was was known throughout the surrounding coun try as the ‘ladv Pedler;’ as she spent much of her time in trafficking with the people. Though trading on such small articles as were conven ient for her to carry, she seemed to be doing a good business; for she always had ample means to procure comforts and luxuries, notwith standing she always sought to appear poor, and, on some occasions, even needy. She, however sustained a good character, and was received with welcome by all her acquaintances. I likel her very much myself, ana vet there was a mys tery about her devotion to Nelly, her more than probable connection with the letter, her ready command of money and many other in stances, that I conld not understand. ‘During this interval. Prince Reville had, in fulfillment of his promise to me, been at my house several times. He proved himself as much of a gentleman abroad, as at home, and no friend ever met with a more cordial welcome at my house thao thi3 man for whom nature has done more than the world in all probability, will ever know. ‘At the time of his first visit Witlie was at home, and they at once became as much attach ed to each other as if they had been long sepa rated brothers. Together they reamed the woods with their dogs and rifles like school-boys on a holiday excursion, and when they returned from their rambles, even Mrs. Montgomery greeted the stranger with a welcome that I nev er before saw her extend to any one except her most intimate acquaintances. And more sur prising still, he was the only stranger with whom I had ever seen Nelly familiar and unre served, and that too, almost at first sight. In deed, he seemed to possess the power of charm ing others; but from all that I have seen, he sel dom used it, generally preferring to seem an in different spectator of the scenes around him. Why be was so I do not know; for his intol- lectnal powers were of a high order, and his passions, though under good control, were strong and vehement. His judgment was deep, his culture broad, extensive, general—his con versational powers pleasing and persuasive, his manners polishod and easy—his honor without blemish. He was modest, unassuming—a true friend—perhaps an uncompromising enemy, who if wantonly insulted, would strike to Hurt. In addition to this he was handsome in person and commanding in appearance; but there was something about him deeply mysterious, even to me. ‘In part, vou have already learned why tcis was so. His surprise at first learinng my name and place of residence—his friendship for a stranger who was quietly traveling the common highway—his evasion of everything about whicti I was most concerned—the concealment of the papers under the pillow npon which he slum bered—the yellow ribbon with which they were bound, all serve to explain, in part, the reason why I thonght him mysterious; but when I tell you that although he'and the strange woman were evidently well acquainted, and tor a long time at my house together, I, never was able to bring them face to face—that he sought a pri vate opportunity to ask Nelly if she had ever seen any one closely resembling'herself, that he -feiwjAnL.yjainlace ’ the interest of an artist who was about to finish the most delicate touchings of her portrait, that notwithstanding the evident respect he had for the wishes of myself and family, we were never able to induce him to go with Willie to see you and your wonderful cottage—that I have good, reasons for believing that he not only knew of your own existence, but was acquainted with much of your history, you will fully understand the reason why I thought Prince Reville myste rious! I do not understand him yet, nor do I suppose that I ever will. And thoi gh I have offered him strong inducements to visitmy fim- ily since my residence here, he has never done so. This of itself is somewhat curious; for I am satisfied that he always felt himself a welcome guest when at my house. ‘I have now told you all I know of Prince Re ville,* but not all I know of that other mysteri- rious character, the strange woman who so in gratiated herelf into the affection of myself aud family, as to almost seem one of us With me, you no doubt think Prince Reville strange; with me,you no doubt think the woman strange; but what will you think when I tell you 'hat she is now in the house—that her name is Pen ny Lemon—‘aunt Penny Lemon’—the same lady who. I am told, has been as devotedly attached to you as to my own Nelly! ‘I see, my dear boy, that you are astonished, but listen. I have not told yon all. I have only given you an account of Nelly Stanbndge up to the time when she was twelve years old. With her history since then, you are well acquainted; for Nelly as yon have already guessed I well —know Nelly Stanbridge is Nelly Montgomery! Nelly now knows that she is not my dangh- er—thstsheisnot Willie’s stster—that she has no mother! To learn this was more than the tender flower conid bear without drooping. It was this revelation that threw her into the brain fever, with which she now struggles, I pray God not mortally. ‘Her parentage is still as profound a secret to me as it was on the night when she was found at my door. I had constantly cherished Pee thonght thatshe would never learn her true his tory, that all my=life I should hear her sweet voice call me father—that she would grow with the buds of spring, bloom with the roses of summer, and be bappy as the birds. I have alway.? bcea very carefal to conceal my journal in such a way that there wonld be no oaaoce for it to fall into her bands neither by accident or otherwise. By some means unknown to me she found it yesterday, morning, and while hastily looking over its pages the description there giveu of the hump-backed mau arrested her attention. She continued to read until she came to the place where a little infaDt was found one dark and dreary night, when she became so deeply interested that she resolved to see what became of it. Coming to' tho mysterious letter in which occurred a part of her own name, as known to her, she read on and only wondered; bnt when she came to the account of the adop tion of Nelly Stanbridge as my own daughter, and as Willie’s sister, her wonder and astonish ment gave away to fear and trembling—her quick mind conceived the idea that she was herself Nelly Stanbridge! With a faint hope that Bhe was mistaken, she continued to road, bnt long before she oame to the end of her his tory, as there narrated, she became so th 'rough ly convinced that she was an unknown stranger in my family, that she ran iDto this room while I was writing a letter on some particular busi ness, and (joining np me deathly pale, holding the ill-fated journal in her hands, she, cried in tones that trembled with anguish. ‘Here, father, iB a journal of yonr life in which my name is called Nelly Stanbridge ! I: all that is here recorded be true, I am not N.ily Montgomery, but a poor, unknown orphan— Can 1 this be so ? Are you not my well-loved (.Continuedon 7th page.) 3