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ACROSTIC.
BY X. A. B.
May sorrow's cloud ne’er shade thy happy brow,.
All bright and lovely with hope divine,—
Round thy pathway may flowers bloom as now,
Yes, forever bloom, for thee and thine!
Ah, could fond wishes bring thee blessings rare.
Believe me, I’d crown thee with flowers fair—
Brightly they should spring around thy feet,
Imparting life, hope, and bliss complete:
Even time should stay her unfeeling hand
Carving with lines of care thy pearly cheek:
O, full of Joy the golden bowl shall stand.
Veneer’d with choicest flowers, sweet and meek.
I’d lay a thousand blessings at thy feet!
No thought of evil should thy peace alloy,
Good angels guard thy way aud nought annoy.
Thy spirit freed, should find a home on high,
On blissful shores—in Heaven—beyond the sky—
Naught to fear—God to love—with angels nigh!
Atlanta, Ga., July 3,1870.
A Permanent Position.
BY MBS. M. SHEFFEY TEXEBS.
CHAPTER II.
Through the glare and din of the city Isabel
Devereux walked swiftly* Unused she had here
tofore been to going afoot and unattended, but,
on this occasion in her tumult of feeling, there
was something of a relief in the discomforts
arising from the heat of the stones underfoot,
the blaze of the sunshine and the jostling of the
human beings with whom she was now on a level
in the social scale.
‘I am but one of the crowd—why should I not
be pushed and trodded upon ?’ she,said once,half
aloud, as in a narrow pass a hod carrier brusced
her with his load and left the smutch of bis foot
upon the erape border of her gown; nevertheless
she wiped off the whitening stain and stepped
more warily.
Meanwhile her brain was in a whirl of thongbts
regarding the meeting with Angus Mordaunt.
That encounter bad been not only wholly unex
pected but happened to be the very one she
wonld have dreaded beyond every other. He
was an American; he had known her only when
she coaid meet him as her equal in wealth, and
in position. She remembered too, with a ges
ture of impatience, how she had even then felt
a preference for the society and admiration
which he, nnlike her throng of other friends,
had seemed chary of bestowing.
‘And now he wonld offer me charity as he
would any other beggar of the streets, or, worse,
wonld foist me and my poverty upon the im
passioned bounty of his German Pythias. No !’
with an imperious stamp of her dusty boot upon
the pavement, ‘no; I will starve before I accept
from him the first, and I must be near perishing
with hunger before I shall be more willing than
now to settle down to three score and ten years
of beer flagons, uncooked schinken and sauer
kraut with German metaphysics, or intermin-
ab.e clocking of stockings for sance of content
ment— though 1 —and an unwonted expression of
tenderness crept into her face as she thought of
the manly wooing of her German lover—‘Yon
Woltke has acted nobly throughont. He has
proven his honor in seeking to abide by the pro
posal he made my father before we were left
penniless. Even bad I loved bim, however, I
wonld never have held him to such a sacrifice.’
She walked more slowly and with bowed head,
thinking of the tragic; events follqVing the pro-
f->aV ot Von 'Woltk^ret
pif-al ot Von Woltk<?rat Si-. Morbi
ncuuoement so qaictyy succeeding
ure of the bank in Now Orleans; tile:
an-
Murk,
of’ tix/Tail-
e foroed jour
ney from St. Moriz to Zorich and the falling ot
the blow there in tbs form of tbeir cancelled
letter of credit from their bankers at Genoa,
with the packet of letters showing them how the
very foundation stone of their prosperity had
crumbled into dust: the first unbelief—then the
dismay of her proud old father, deepening
swiftly into a wild despair through whioh he
sunk hour after hour into the driveliings of idi
ocy, the stupor of disease—the stillness and the
hash of death.
Since then she had not known or cared how
the days of seclusion passed. From them she
had been driven only by the necessity of barter
ing ber jewels and trinkets in order to meet the
heavy bills incurred by tho illness, death and
burial of ber parent. Later she had oome to re
alize that she must also work in order to meet
the daily cost of liviug. Everything marketable
she bad already disposed of, excepting one set
of gems which had been her mother’s, the jew
eled watch at her chatelaine—the last gift of her
father, and a single valuable ring also now
sparkling on her finger, as she daintily lifted her
robes in threading the slimy streets. That she
would ultimately have to part with those, too,
she had told herself ODly that morning as she
sat at the table of the Hotel de Saxe, but not yet
could she part with them. Wait until she had
teen hungry and cold, and, in the meantime,
<?hfc w uld try the life of a governess. True
tnere were her beauty and her rich, blue blood
wtichYon Woltke coveted, but neither could
she sell lhos9 yet. She would try that life of a
governess first. Hence it was that she was now
on hbr way to the office of the “Zeitung
Th - old life of ease, oi luxury, of adulation—
ber favored apartments along the galleries of
the Hotel de Saxe—Yon Woltke with his pleading
S X )i: beauty—and the darker, sterner faoe and
figure of Angus Mordaunt, all seemed at an in
finite distance from her as she walked wearily
a ong the narrower streets converging to the
point lor which she was seeking. It was in the
v ry court she sought, the dank, dark court up
on which opened the doors of a whilom cloister
now subverted to the purposes ef a modern ad
vertising sheet, that she finally came to a stand
still. One could see the dismal aspect of the
pit.ee had totally unsettled her seli-confider.ce,
bad dismayed her at the prospect of braving
those forbidding portals over whose gloom might
Lave been inscribed those words of despair:
•Abandon hope all ye who enter here.*
What hopes, what dreams, what visions of
3 < r.tii she must forever abaubon once she was
entered within those walls and advertised as a
governess, among the resident English and
American families—a kind of upper servant,less
then tot- V6ry least of those madchens she could
s-t e i hat moment flaunting their coquettish white
0- ips sod scavlet bodices at a distant fountain.
Ones within there is no receding for me,‘ehe
murmured with a pitiful quiver of her iips;
‘ v v. Yon Woltke wonld hesitate to own allegi
ance *o a nursery governess, in his way he is
»t> jealous as a Brahmin of his caste; neither
h a id his lady mother overlook the fact of my
good old name appearing in the “Zeitung“ in
such a connection.*
It ’va% a fair pictnre she made, framed in the
tic sky porta’., against whose lintel she was leaD-
ii g t ail in weariness, half in sheer dread of
J-v-v own loneliness, helplessness aud sudden
f> i ni* .»f courage to face ber future.
I r nnot do it,‘ she said aloud, lifting her
fisure from its support against the door frame.
1- < -■ a iull sense of ber desolation, and the re-
v> tv bran ce of the pit i lets necessity there was
r he r to earn bread thrust itself upon her once
n o>e;i be uttered a low moan and darted into
■ building.
H re the shade was deepened, and Isabel
could by straining ber gaze,discover only that a
i arrow, spiral stairway was winding upward
ix to legions of yet denser and more repellent
jMcom. Once more her reeolution faltered end
her nerves quivered with the tense strain upon
them.
So with her hand upon the railing of the stair
way she determined that she would go no further.
‘If I must work, ‘ she said in a low, hopeless
tone, ‘I will go away from here to eome place
where neither Yon Woltke nor Angus Mordaunt
will find me; where no one will know me as be
longing to the old life. There are places in the
mountains I remember, little, white villages
high up where only chamois hunters climb—
Burely there, with some light work, I might live
to a green old age. If I can sell this watch and
ring, the proceeds should keep me in food for
many a year in one of those mountain shrines.
They will have to go sometime, so why should I
drudge my life away when I might live like a
princess in disgniBe in one of those Alpine ey
ries. Life there should be all play—no work.*
‘Life should be all play anywhere, my lady,
for such as you, ‘ said a low, persuasively inton
ed voice close at her side.
With a violent start Isabel turned to see that
the intruder was a man, lithe, wiry, villainous
looking. He had crept close to her from an ad
jacent alcove, within the dusky recess of whioh
he had doubtless been watching her ever since
her entrance into the building.
He was well though flashily clad, but there
was a leer and familiarity in his gaze that was in
stinctively repugnant to the delicately nurtured
girl. Without a word, or a second glance, she
turned and attempted to leave the building.
She had scarcely gotten to the doorway, how
ever, when he again reached her side.
‘Stay, pretty one,* he said, growing bolder,
as a single glance showed both him and Lis ter
rified companion that the court whs empty—
quiet—deserted!
With a shudder, too, Isabel reflected how she
had marked the thickness of those cloister walls,
and the narrow embrasured casements so far
overhead. From where they were standing,
sheltered from observation themselves should
any passer by chance to glanc6 beyond the arch
ed entrance way of tbe court, she could not
even see if the bourgeoise gossips were still loiter
ing about the fountain of the Platz beyond.
‘Yon are not near so civil as yon are lovely,
pretty one,* persisted ber persecutor. He was
edging himself nearer to her, being already be
tween her and tbe door, her only way of escape.
Desperation roused within tbe girl all the la
tent courage of her race. Brought to bay she
faced him bravely, her imperious bearing reveal
ing to bim nothing of her inward quakings and
fears.
‘Yon have something to demand of me, ‘ she
said, quickly* ‘Speak at once, and stand aside
to let me pass. Yon are no object of charity—
my life yon dare not take, and I have little be
side if yonr object is robbery. ‘
•Softly, softly, my dear,* ejaculated the creat
ure, his shrill whisper now close to her ear, she
haviDg Btepped backward before his advance
until the iron railing of the stairway cut off her
further retreat - ‘softly. Such harsh words are
not suited to a mouth like yours. You are brave
as you are beautiful, I see. That is well, for if
you Bhould halloo till you exhaust yonrself no
one would hear. Tbe office of the Zeitung was
removed yesterdry, and the building is vacant,
so just listen to a bit of reason, will you ? Hand
me over that watch and ring and yonr purse, my
dear, and I shall leave von in peace. Come,
come;’ he continued, smiling as Isabel, seeing
no hope of relief, and willing to be rid of bim
on any terms, with quick, nervous touches drew
her purse from her pocket and the ring from
ber finger, and commenced to unfasten the jew
eled repeater from her chatelaine; ‘you are the
first reasonable woman I have ever met. Yox
are a disoreet woman, too, and know how to do
business in a business-like Way. There, that
will At>-AV«K.k 5^. m-y .nnj QJiStJV>»£Oli
are so generous, one thing- more ehd we wiTT
part good friends—that medallion at your
throat,—’
‘No, no!’ cried Isabel, ‘no, I will never give
that,’ and she covered with ber despoiled Singers
the richly gemmed portrait of ber father that,
hung from a slender chain abont her neck, and
with a short, quick prayer for help, she grasped
more firmly the bannister rail as if to lend her
strength for a coming conflict.
‘But it is just that which I must have,’ said
tbe villain, chnokliDg as he advanced upon her.
‘Its sparkles tempt me as do the flash of yonr
eyes. Come, be reasonable, my lady, or—’
He was pressing upon her closely, but Isabel
bad, with a bound, cleared three or four of the
spiral steps. Somewhat protected by the abrupt
carvings of the flight, she was standing at bay,
her tall, finely rounded figure erect and firmly
poised, her graceful head thrown back defiant
ly and the glow of an unconquerable spirit shin
ing from ber eyes.
At that instant too, as her fingers passed for
firmer hold from the bannisters to tbe iron rail
below, she felt the heavy rod yield to her grasp.
A thrill of exultation passed through her. With
a swift movement she bent downward and
wrenched the iron from its socket. Seeing her
purpose tho man leaped forward sratching at
the formidable weapon in ber hand, but she was
too quick for bim. Regaining bar upright po
sition she lifted high tho metal rod, and, tower
ing above him as hs sprang up Ut« steps ..ho
brought itjdown with a crashing blow upon his
skall.
With an unfinished curse upon his lips he
staggered back and would have fallen headlong,
stunned and dazed as he was, but that he was
suddenly seized from behind by an arm that
lifted him clear of the bannisters ahd tossed him
as though he had been a dead dog, down amid
the rubbish ot the passage below.
Here he lay motionless, while Angns Mor
daunt climbed to the spot whore Isabel stood.
Yes, the beautiful heroine was still standing
erect and grasping yet the weapon that had
served her so well. But she was no ioDger bravo.
White to the very lips, the pnpils of her great
eyes were dilated with a horrible terror and
dread of the deadly crime she had committed.
•Isabel—Miss Devereuxcried Mordaunt,
ciasping her hand with bath of his. eager—vet
not daring to raise the tremulous fingers to his
lips; ‘Miss Devereux, speak and tell me you are
not hurt. Great Heavens! bad I only reacned
here five minutes earlier. Did that,villain only
scare you ? Are yon hurt ?’
‘Hurt?’ she repeated as if scarcely under
standing him, ‘hurt? No, I think not; but is he
dead —qaite dead ? Have I killed him?’
Her gaze turned, as if fascinated, upon the
prostrate figare dimly outlined in the gloom of
the passage below.
•Dead—killed him ?‘ answered Mordaunt, re
assuringly, ’of coarse not. It would take some
thing more than a blow from your arm to frac
ture a skull as thick and hardened by villainy
as that one. He is only stnnned. See ! he is
stirring already. *
It was indeed so—with deep groans the foiled
villain was reviving and feeling the weight of
his doom lifted thus unexpectedly from her
heart and brain, onr heroine lost altogether the
hardihood which had sustained her. With a
shuddeting cry she tottered forward, and An
gus Mordaunt received in his arms the seeming
ly lifeless, bat to him, most precious burden.
‘My poor little darling, ‘ he said, softly, look
ing down pityingly upon the pallor of her face
as it lay against his breast, ‘the world has served
yon hardly at its very threshold, but, please
heaven, it shall have no opportunity to maltieat
yon ever again if l can help it ‘
Deeming it better not to attempt ber resusci
tation amid tbe associations of her adventure,
he lifted her in his arms and bore her from the
building into the open air of the court Upon
one of the stone steps of a disused shrine he
laid her down supporting her tenderly, and, in
another moment, had the satifaotion of seeing
her eyes unclose and the brilliant carmine dye
ing cheek and brow as she gazed np into his
face, at first dreamily, then with a quickly dawn
ing oonscionsnes8 of his pressnoe.
‘Where am I ?’ she murmured, faintly. *1 —
I forget What does it mean—and why am I
here ?'
Then, as Bhe felt his cheek so close to hers,
she made a desperate effort to lift herself to an
npright position. But her bodily strength had
been too overtaxed; and her nerves too unstrung,
by her late danger. With a half sob she sunk
back upon Mordannt’s arm and he, selfish lover
as he was, proved inconsiderate enough to clasp
her a trifle closer for the sake of the bright
blush he could see tinging her cheek through
the slender fingers with whioh she had attempt
ed to shield her face. Too honorable, however,
to press his suit upon her in her weakness, or
too doubtful yet of tbe reciprocity of his senti
ments, he did not speak, bat she could feel his
heart tbnmping. against her ear, and it was
doubtless that sound, as much as anything else,
that sent tho life alood rapidly coursing through
her veins once more* Again she made the effort
aud this tirneliSliQ herself from the support of
his aria.
Mordaunt looked anxious.
‘Do yo>j think you art quite able to sit alone ?
Let me see the state of your pulse. ‘
His -Hagers touched the slender, blue-veined
wrist softly. -Remember,‘ he said gently, but
with a swift glance at the fair faoe which now
unguarded mustexoress some of the emotion he
might arouse in her heart, ‘remember, hereafter
I shall think J have at least a partial right to
prevent you frotu* risking your precious life in
these out of the way places. ‘
The delicata barometer under bis finger tips
vibrated tiemulons’y as the sadden warm tide
watered about the mobile features, but Isabel
withdrew ber band almost coldly.
‘It is probable our paths in life will lie too
widely separate for either of us to be coguizsuct
of tbe risks the other may have to encounter.
If you will remember, I was in this out-of thc-
way place thiy^jprning in order to advertise
for the positioLm" governess.’
‘Yes,’ saiij.'MJ^ns quietly; ‘I remembered
your errand, and for that reason followed you
hither. I wished to say that I had found a po
sition for you. 1
Isabel looked up, pleased and expectant.
‘How kind you are, • she said, gratefully beam
ing upon bim.
‘Kind ?’ repeated Mordaunt making a wond
rous effort to repress the words that rose to his
lips at the artless gratitude of the girl he would
have bartered his life to serve. As it was there
was something in his tone—in his manner whioh
caused Isabel’s heart to flatter, and she contin
ued almost c^fnsedly:
‘I had no right to think you would take any
further interest in me, or my affairs, especially
alter the rejection of your offer of assistance this
morning. I hope you will forgive that appar
ent rudeness. I have hardly been myself since
—since—‘the sweet voice trembled—‘since my
father died, nnd this trouble came— 4
‘I know,* be answered, gently. ‘By and by,
when yon have grown stronger, I shall ask you
to tell me about these miserable weeks of which
I have known nothing—and’—he went on smil
ing, emboldened by tbe submissive gentleness
of her mannei—‘you shall in tho meantime,have
my forgivneBt for your oruel treatment of me
upon one condition—one only, mind you. 1
•Whatis that ?‘she asked smiling in return,
though, for some reason eyes and voice ware to
gether unsteady. ‘It must be an important con
dition,*
‘It jy an i?iojtant one,* Mordaunt answered,
•I thmk 1 il.ly safely promise that, ‘ caid Isa-
b 1 with a halt bitter gravity. ‘I have not se
many means of living offered me that I can af
ford to refuse a position recommence 1 byt n.6
who has pro-- a himself such a friend in need
as you have dous*‘
Mordant 6niiled. * *
‘N -vertheless the prospect- must he a most
lugubrious one, or you would not sigh at such
a rate,’ he said, bending closer to look into her
troubled face, ‘I thought you would be glad to
hear that yonr independence of spirit was to se
cure a field or action. ‘
*I was not signing altogether for the hardships
the field of cotton might bring me“ Isabel an
swered, fraL.kl)\ ‘I was more troubled by the
reflection that my encounter mis morning has
rendered the acceptance of any position imme
diately imperative. 4
‘Why so ?‘ ssked Mordant quickly.
For an answer she held np to him her des
poiled chatelaine, and ringless fingers. ‘The
thief, you see, secured my purse, and my last
available trinkets upon which I depended to
supply any immediate necesaitivos. 1
Mordaunt had sprang to hi* feet. ’The dou
ble-dyed scoundrel, ‘ tie ejaculated, angrily. ‘I
thought you had escaped wthout loss or injury,
and for that reason grve H villian thi r -e
to escape rather ‘l ■. have you dragr •
court of inquiry wa>; her? ». an ..,-e* ' . c: - 1
iivj ib yift h’ji o t.c.ibs "">* ' . j* *
Taking rapi^ strides he disappeared within
the cloister,' For several minutes Isabel sat
awaiting his return, toriuied by fears of a thou
sand evils which might beial him in the gloom
of the hoiirb'e building. When she had awaited
five, ten minutes he was still invisible and she
could bear the suspense no longer. Rising
hurriedly, she went towards the portal, deter
mined to setk him in the cloister itself if need
be. But at ihb entrance she met him coming
forth; and, though baffled and worried by tue
failure of his search for the robber, his face
lighted up in pleased so-prise as he saw her
waiting fir him there.
'I though; something m ght have happened to
you in th is wretched p’ace, 4 she said, quite
flushed and nervous.
‘I am sorry to have made you anxious, ‘ he an
swered, q tietly ‘bat the : ascal was gone, and I
have been following the trail he left in some
drops of blood which at last guided me no
farther than the back entrance. That was open,
and through ft he tad evidently vanished. * He
got off with your purse, but I secured these of
which you wiil be g!ad.‘
He held up her watch and ring. Isabel sirech-
ed her hand for them with an exclamation of
delight, but he lifted them quicaly from her
reach.
‘Not yet‘, he said, tyrant .illy, 'I shall have a
condition to impose before x yield them to you. 1
‘As you will,* said sue, laughing and with
drawing her aand. ‘I can trust you not to im
pose any conditions too difficult. Moreover 1 ,
sue continued with a spice of her old coquetry,
‘ihe recovery ot those may enable me to defy
your conditions if they should prove to be ex
actions. ‘
‘Jus', what I know, ‘coolly returned Mordaunt,
‘and for that reason I withheld them until I
find you practicable and willing to submit to
terms. But,* he went on more gravely, ‘it must
have been a mere accident that I should find
the watch and ring among the rubbish where
that villian fa!, ! tnid von ha was cmna with
dismayed. *1 would rather lose the money,
believe me. After all it had not near the value
of my jewels. I can do without it. ‘
‘Gome then,‘said Mordaunt drawing her hand
through his arm. ‘We will go away from this
court, you are yet white and trembling. Look
yonder at those lindens surrounding that foun
tain in the Platz—are not those shadows, and
those benches inviting? Shall we not go thither
to rest before I summon a Droschke to take yon
back to the hotel ?‘
So sweet was it to the desolate orphan to be
thus oared for, she had not the heart to say him
nay. Together they walked across the dismal
court where no sunshine ever ever came,through
the arched entrance and amid the sunbeams be
yond to the bench under the lindens of the
Pla!z where she had seen those madchen filling,
and gracefully poising the buckets of water at
the fount-in.
(Concluded next week.)
•’ FORTY YEARS AGO.”
Drifting Sands from the Mountains
and Foot-liills of Northeast Georgia.
A Brilliant Romance Based Upon Facts.
By G. J. N. WILSON.
CHAPTER XII.
Nelly Montgomery—a pretty name, even to a
stranger; but to these who best knew her, it is
Dot only pretty, but charmingly beautiful and
lovely; indeed, so much so, that we mas; still
call her Nelly Montgomery. Who, having seen
her radiant beauty, her charming smile, and her
^switching manners, would be willing to asso
ciate so much loveliness with any other name?
Who, knowing her unsullied honor, her splen
did attainments, and the high order of her in
tellectual powers, would be willing to ohange
the name with which these endearing qualities
are so completely interwoven as to seem in
separable? Aye; who, having been under the
fascinating influence of all her varied charms,
would dare call her by any other name than
Nelly Montgomery? Echo answers none—no
not one.
True, heartfelt, active sympathy, gees hand
in hand with love and respect. Passive, inac
tive sympathy, may be felt for the 'low-born
stranger and the worthless vagabond, but hu
man nsture requires the touch of a Power above
and beyond its own reach to enable it to extend
practical, operative sympathy to those who will
not help themselves when in thsir power to do.
It is a sad thing to be depraved, wretched, ruin
ed by one’s own actions; bnt from a human
standpoint, it is more sad to be doomed by some
mysterious fatality to suffer physioai pain and
mental anguish in consequence of some over
powering misfortune thatoan a either bo foreseen
nor avoided. True, we kuow that, it requires an
intense heat to ‘consume the dross aud retine
the gold' that exists more or less in human na
ture; but why the highly gifted, the innocent,
the almost angelic Nelly Montgomery should so
suffer as to extinguish the light of reaeon, aud
caase pain of deepest mortal agony, will never
be fully explained until the purity of heaven is
seen by the great central Light ‘in the midst of
the throne of God.’
On the morning of the fifth day after her dis
covery of the fatal journal, Julius was permit
ted to visit Nelly in the recoption room of Mont
gomery Hall.
She was alone when ho entered, and engaged
in reading a bibie, that was lying on the table be-
torirr.-uj. •MfilWVx-erujJlR, -j?*i.\i•>
that had passed o^er her features iiFlc Ino be
ginning of her illness, she arose from her seat
and bade him welcome. The fearfnl trial
through which she had pas-ea—the sudden
ehange from her high social position to a state
of dependent orphanage, Lad wrought some
3ad changes in. her appearance. The rose tint
of her checks was gone, the expression of her
eyes was less radiant, aud there was a sadness in
the tone of her voice that revealed sorrow and
anxiety still. Otherwise, she was as beautiful
and lovely as svat,
‘Nothing could afferd me more pleasure than
to meet, you this morning,’said Julius, offering
her a bunch of white roses with the dews of
Azilta still upon them.
‘Thank you for yonr visit, and the gift you
l ing me.’said Nelly, tak;ng the roses, and
y inting out a seat to Julius as she took her
toid you ha was gone with
that vitiian fel
your purse.*
‘Yes,‘ said Isabel; ‘I remember seeing him
slip the parse into his pocket.
‘It may be recovered, however, ‘said Mordant,
after a moment's thought. ‘I can at once set
the police on the track, and the thief can readily
be found, if you are willing to give publicity to
this affair.*
‘No, no ! a thousand times no, ‘ cried Isabel,
•You are cert&inlv welcome. The flowers are
a token of my respect for you, and in memory
of the mutual friend whom they so much resem
ble.'
•That mutual friend reminds me of the days
of th6 past—the happy days when you and Cor-
alie, and myself were together—wuen, only as
he^rd in song and story, I knew nothiegof paiu
and sorrow. All, me! they will r-'vnr return—
they are sons—forever goes.' ’-lur cere is a
* • '■•v—a bcYo^d - ‘ifties of dft rf h,
. ^ ui* ... .y meet ag.-i. a o xy whose flow
ers nover fade—whose ciondless skies are never
darkened by sorrow, pain, and tears.’
‘Yes, Nelly; and I see you have beeu reading
in the Book where the glorious trains, in rela
tion to the future, are revealed, aud where we
meet with the full assurance of a res’ing place
for the weary—of a land whcie friends are nev
er separated.’
•Ye3. Ir; I have been reading in the Bible.
There a e so many cheering protaLes in it, that
I like to read it very much. I sup >ose you have
learned that my earthly prospects have recently
' been fearfully blighted, and I wish tc spend at
least a portion of every day in trying to make
I my heavenly one brighter.’
‘I have learned something of the matter to
which 1 suppose you refer, a nd have come to
talk with you about it, provided yon have no
objsc.ioua.’
•I have none whatever.’ sadly replied Nelly,
closing the Bible.
•Then, as to reading that book, I am satisfied
that it is the best thing that you can do under
the circumstances. In it you find the wa>
pointed out to life eternal, and there it is writ
ten, ‘Blessed i3 he that read-th, and they that
hear tho words of this prophecy, and keep those
things which are written th u :n.’ Toe charm
ing promises to which yon llude form, by far,
the most inters-tmg, as well.. the most impor
tant subject that can engage cue attention of the
human mind. And when we consider that it
has been the glorious theme of the greatest
minds that ever lived, we should, white in onr
early youth, take courage and work while it is
day for the night ccmeth when go man can work!
As to the recent blight of your earthly prospects
I feel confident tha t if you wiil carefully study
that holy Book, you wii find many reasons to be
thankful for your good iortxne, instead of heart
broken abont your recent discoveries. True, it
is a mutter of the greatest surprise, but you
must remember, Nelly, that you are surrounded
by a'l the blessings of life, and that it would be
impossible for yon to even think of anything
calculated to promote your welfare ard happi
ness that would, lor a moment, be denied yon.
All of the inestimable treasures of love aud for
tune are at jour command -within your easy
reach. You are the subject of prayers us holy
xs were ever wafted to a throne of grace - of as
pure love as ever warmed the human heart -of
friendship as unselfish as ever animated the
breast of mortals, and what need you more? Pos
sessed of charms almost too pare and fascinating
for earth —endowed with an intellect of the
highest order, and without an enemy in the
world, you are, indeed, surrounded with pros
pects too bright and full of hope, to allow your
self to pine away iu the glorious bloom of youth.
I have oome not to flatter you, nor to point out
alluring prospects that you can never realize. If
I know myself, there is neither flattery nor
falsehood in my nature, and I trust you believe
me. Then I come to you as your friend—as one
who would, if Deceseary, give his life for you—
and I have oome in the name of others—in the
name of those who love yon as they do them
selves, to tell you that you need nothing more
ta make you happy.
•Remember, Nelly, that your happiness se
cures the happiness of all around you—that
smile is given for smile, and that flowing from
thejsame fountain ot sorrow, tears mingle with
tears as well. I know that I am inexperienced
in all the great lessons of life; but there is a
something which I feel, but can neither explain
nor understand, that makes you very dear >o
me. There is an emanation from tbe presence of
tbe truly good that can be felt from the hear ,
but it cannot be expressed in words. Irradiated
by this living, glowing influences, your p:e —
ence would make the most dreary spot on eaitii
cheerful and happy. I have ardently desired
for many dayR to be with you. I feel that I am
in the presence of a friend—a sincere friend.
Nelly, and you caD form no Idea of the value I
place upon your friendship. All of earth could
not buy it, nor can I ever be false to its teach
ing. Then sxy, my fair, my dear friend, will
you for my sake, for the sake of those whose
earthly happiness is ce-tered in yours, and
more than all for your own sake, soil! look upon
the Montgomery family as your own?—as your
father and mother and brother?’
Nelly listened to this touching appeal with
intense emotion, and chasing awp.y the tears
that she in vain had tried to suppress, sadly re
plied:
‘I am indeed your friend, and knowing you to
be mine. I can talk to you without emoarras-
ment. I have no other to call by these endear
ing names, even if I would. I owe them a debt
of gratitude that all of life oan never repay. Do
not imagine for a moment that my love for them
is less, bat, if possible, greater and stronger
than it ever was; for their devotion to me has al
ways been that of a father, and mother, and
brother. To love me so very much when they
knew me an unknown orphan left in helpless
infancy upon their hands shows more of tbe
spirit of this Holy Book than is often met with
in this cold and selfish world. Oh, no! I can
never cease to love them. lean never cease to
call tlmm by the endeariog titles of father, and
mother, aud brother. Indeed, I can never cea-e
to feel that they are anything less. When I told
them so this morning it afforded them so much
pleasure that I was richly repaid for all my suf
ferings. Oh, no, no! I oan never cease to feel
that I am the daughter of John and Ella Mont->
gomerv—that I am Willie’s sister! My knowl
edge may teach me better: but to feel different,
ly would be worse than death. Indeed, I did
feel so at first, and suffered more than death.
Oh! that I had never seen the fatal journal in
whioh my curious history is written, but now
that the first torrible shock is over. I will take
yonr advice, and earnestly try to be myself
again. With a heart fall of gratitude, I sincere
ly thank you for the service thdt yon have ren
dered me in my misfortune, as well as for your
unselfish friendship in my unclouded days,
Forgive me, Julius, for the trouble 1 nave caused
you during my unfor uuate illness; for I could
no help it. Gan I kuow that I am forgiven?’
‘Aye! Nelly, I could forgive you anything;
b : 't you have done nothing for which forgive
ness is required. A life devoted to your service
would place you under no obligations to me—I
-w-.utd willing servantjjtill, I j wnu!d fore
go any amouut of mere personal* pleasure to
serve yon, aud now that you have made me su-
piemeiv happy by assuring me that you are still
a member of the Montgomery family, let ns for
get the sorrows of the past and remember only
the sunny spots of life. Beyond the lowering
clouds ot bitter memory, there are to you. Nelly,
rnauy bridautones reaching so far around the
horizon cf life, that you need not dwell fix
shadows any more. It may require a mighty
effort to chase them away; but make it, and
let v>3 again live in the glowing sunshine of
the j .it.’
‘I ..ill certainly try to do so. and I sincerely
hope that no action of mine will ever again ren
der yon unhappy. Though I may never be able
to blot from my memory the dark pages of my
history, 1 wili study to so live that no more such
will ever be written. Oh, that Coralie was here!
Did I pO'-sess a kingdom, I would give it, crown
diadem aud all, to have her with me now. Her
sunny smile would be ‘like the shadow of a rock
in a weary (an 1,’ and her gentle spirit would be
a sweet companion in my lonely hours when you
and Willie are gone. I wonder what she would
say if told I am not her cousin?’
‘Like the rest ot us, she would, no doubt, be
overcome with surprise, but I presume she will
never know*it. Has your father 3aid anything
to vou abiut keeping yoxr early history a pro
found «>ore?
‘He has, aud this morning I promised him
that I would never reveal it to any one. I talk
freely to you because he told me that you knew
all.’
•I am under a similar promise, and talk to
you upon the subject only by his permission. 1
‘Provided it do>-s not lower me in yonr esti
mation. I am glad that yon know the cause of
my unfortunate condition; for your advice, your
sympathy, aud your presence, unite to heal my
wounded heart. Excuae me for saying this. It
is not fl litery, but the daepest feelings of my
heart. Others would think it unbecoming in
me to tali; so, either in your presence, or ont of
it; but I kuow you will not misconstrue my mo
tives, nor blame me tor leaning upon you as a
friend in need. If von blame mo, the fault is
yours; for you hive been a friend indeed.’
•Blame yon. Nelly? No. Misconstrue your
motives? Never! If you can talk to me more
freely than to others, be a u sured that vour con
fidence is fully appreciated and that I never will
betray it. This brings to mv mind a subject
about which I have often studied, and tried in
vain to understand. It is a marvel to all our
friendr, aud I suppose accounts in part, for the
mutual friendship and symoathy existing be
tween us I refer to the similarity of our features.
Even our voices h vve tbe s.vme tone, onr move
ments the same quick motion, our hair the same
black gloss, and oar eyes, though of different
colors, have precisely the same shape aud ex-
pre sion. In short, we are to all observers, very
much alike. When I consider this tact in con
nection with the vast difference between cur so
cial position, you belong to the highest eluss
myself to tue most humble, and kno ing yon to
bb my true friend, I am lost in wonder. Since
the first time I ever saw yon, all this has teeu
an enigma that I am still nuable to solve, p.uct i
am anxious lo know your thoughts upon the
subject.’
•As to social position I have been taught to
look upon a good character and a noble. Gener
ous purpose as superior to sold and silver
you will excuse me for saving in vour presence
that I think I have been correctly taught. How
ever, I do not know of anyone, besides vourself
who thiuks you belong to the humblest 'clGs of
society. I am oi the opinion that all who kuow
you wiil cheerfully accord to you an honorable
position; tor the poet s ataudard is certainly a
correct oue, and yon will excuse your friends for
measuring you by it.
(Continued on 6th page.)