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SCE'
DIES IRiE.
OK
Under the Stars and Bars.
BY CELESTE HLTCHIYS BARKSDALE.
August.
‘Do von relieve in optimism. Eve?’ Lila asks,
' fis she and Ev ■ sit near tb* window.
•Rather in pessimism, Lila,' the girl replies,
: bitterly. ‘Ewe I not snffisient cause for my
; belief? Has it not been imponere Pelio Osnam, in
; onr case? What have we ever had that has been
‘all good?’ Optimism ! delusive word !’
j She buries her f ice in her bands, and Lila
i sighs. 1 sit very near them, hear their ocuver-
i satior, but an- not thinking of tb‘in but. of the
days
CHAPTER XL
sometime* hold it half a sin
To put in word* the grief I fuel."
The murdered girl is laid out in the parlor
where little E’lie was laid and the two are con
nected together ia my mind.
The heavy pertnme of tuberoses nils the air , _ . .
as they r.re neld loosely by the cold white fingers 1 11 ls ttC HiAnveistry with me. My mind is
of Valarie. traveling back over the years. Sorrowful rem-
I kneel beside her, look lone into h*r face i iniseDce Ht best > but wb ° of alJ tb<> world ca »
Sbe smiles, just es I have often her smile i reso!ntel - v P nl awa ? BOtrcw and sorrowful
wbib sleeping. They have brushed back her 1 * bin f? 9? " ho Cftn sbBke 11 from tbeir hearts as
“When I was young.
Ii7ie/i I was young? Ah, woful when:
Ah for the cliang. ‘twist now and then I
with
silky yellow hair, and tuberoses nestle among Pa "‘ did ,he Borpent from his arm ?
the soft waves that are like imprisoned sun Evfl TalHes bfir ,a ' < “- and rfin " at,i
Eve raises her face, and repeats, under her
breath :
‘“Yet liaply there will come a weary day,
When overtasked at length
Both Love and hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a st itue's smile, a statue's strength.
Stands the mute sister Patience, nothing loath,
And both supporting, does the work of both.’ ”
‘Patience is so long coming,’ complains the
girl, to herself, yet audibly. ‘One will die be
fore it comes. Faith, Faith, where are you ? I
grope about for you, but you elude me.’
Her words rouse me. I turn my head to
ward the door. For an instant my heart ceases
to throb, not with fear, tor I know that it is
shine. Sc beautiful even in death ! After the
lapse of years 1 will still see that white-clad fig
ure, that fair, cold, lialf-smiling face, with its
halo of yellow hair.
There is a stir in the hall. Scab comes in.
’Miss Eve, de cap’n of dese men wants to see
you.’
My heart revolts at the idea of his coming to
gloat over his victim, bnt I 8m powerless. He
advances into the room, bows awkwardly, says
that he is very sorry to have had this accident
occur.
I rise to my feet, point to the dead girl, but
before I can speak, Blanche stands before the 1 either John or Bert
abashed officer, saying : There is the sound of a voice, so low and
•Would you not like to see your victim, Cap- 1 sweet, so intensely thrilling that it is impossi-1 over his dead >ody. She was so gay and happy
tain Pendennis?’ * ble not to recognize it: I before, the light of father’s_heart, but she
‘Blanch Jerome, by all that is sacred !" be ! ‘Valarit!’
cries, staring at her in astonishment. ‘How \ The oihers start, look through the twilight
came you here?’ he asks, roughly. j gloom at the figure, clad in the gray uniform.
‘I came to see Harry, to get him released, but He says, again, so pleadingly :
“ Valarie! my darling!'
It reminds me of something also, but I con
tinue to'gaze at the nodding eglantine, the vain
blue flowers that strive to peep at their reflected
images that dance on the rippling water, and
the quivering sunbeam that comes through the
arch overhead until the breeze closes momen
tarily the green aperture and cuts it off.
Looking at if I think that it is a fair illustra
tion of our lives. Here and there dots and rip
ples or sunshine and happiness fleck onr
gloomy lives, too soon to disappear, or be dis
turbed by a foreign element.
The dark green shadows of the .trees, the
pink faces of the flowen, the balmy air. th°
quietness of the scene bas n soothing <-ff-ct
upon niv weary heart. Sorrow and I have been
such close acquaintances for so long that eveD
a momem'k respite is greedily accepted.
‘Helen, my Helen !' sounds in my ears in the
tones of a voice long since hushed in death.
0 Ray, Roy, my eager, hungry heart cries
out for you ‘just as wildly as it did years ago.
Kov, my Roy, shall I never forget that I met
you just here, that here under these trees you
spoke your first words of love ; that here wp
plighted our troth ‘to remain ever unbroken’
save by death.
All the agony of that last, sad moment comes
to me after the lapse of all these years. Ah,
Life, you have been cruel, to me ! Everything
has been taken, you only remain.
1 feel Lila's eyes upon me, I hear Barbara say,
in an undertone to her :
‘Just here Roy Revere was thrown from his
horse one week before he and Helen were to
have been married. She has never been the
same Helen since they took her, fainting, lrom
not through you. 1 wonid rather never see him
again than have yon secure his release !' ‘pas
sionately. 'Go look on the face of your victim,
and may it cut you to the heart as ’
She ceases abruptly, pants hard.
He walks over to where Valarie i3 lying under
the glamor of the rose light.
‘Valarie Mercer!' he exclaims, recoiling.
We all look on in surprise. It is an unex
pected denouement.
•Valarie! Oh my God—Valarie !’ he cries,
bending over the girl, his face convulsed with
emotion.
Blanche smiles mockingly, and says :
•Thie then is ‘Opal. ’ ’
Still he is silent, gazing with clinched hands
and heaving breast.
What was she to him ? I start forward, lay my
hand upon bis arm, ask haughtily :
•How nearly related to yon is Valarie Mercer ?’
‘1 am related to her by the indissoluble tie of
lore,' he answers raising his head proudly.
1 recoil. What right has he to boldly avow
over John's dead love, his love ?
•Were you to have married her?' I ask coldly.
‘1 was not engaged to her,' he stammers; while
I draw a breath of relief; our dead darling is
still pure. ‘I met her in Baltimore at the
house of a mutual friend—and loved her from
the first. She—she—went away, and I have
searched for her all over the State of Maryland.
1 find her at last—oh, Valarie.
1 cannot, I will not permit him to have John’s
place in these last sad hours, I break in upon
his sorrow and lamentations :
*1 suppose you are cognizant of the fact that
she was to have been my brother’s wife in Au
gust ?
* ’Yes—no.’ in a bewildered way.
He looks long upon the face of Valarie, bows
his head as one in prayer, silently leaves the
room.
JVe ask Blanr.be no qneelioDE ; «Le aU.-r.ia by
Valarie, murmurs audibly :
I rise, blinded by sudden tears, grope my way
to him.
‘My wife!' enfolding me in his arms, and
kissing the lips that have last kissed her.
‘John, oh, John ! I cry, brokenly.
‘Helen! Where is Valarie? Valarie! love!
come to me.’
There is no note of fear in his voice,
j ‘John, dear John !' I sob, clinging to him.
‘Helen, you distress me, you terrify me!
! What is it? he cries,
j ‘God comfort you, my poor John ’
•Valarie! he gasps.
1 ‘Is dead.’
' A long, piteous groan, and all is still save the
audible weeping of Barbara, Eve and Lila. I
am glad that 1 cannot see his face, I feel that it
would break my heart.
We creep out of the room, leaving him to bat
tle alone with a sorrow that none of us can bear,
none alleviate.
At ten o’clock he caIIs to Eve. What passes
between them will never be known. Perhaps
Valarie’s sweet spirit hovered near, for she said
that she would always be near him. When Eve
comes to ns later, Bhe says, with a burst of
tsars:
‘It was so cruel! so cruel! If I could, how
willingly I wonid give my life that she might
be restored to him. Throughout it all he sayB
he is glad that he loved her so well. He has
no regrets. Poor John, poor John !'
At the breakfast table we meet him. 1 scarce
ly recognize that wan, woe-stricken man as
John. He kisses us, asks questions about our
health, about the negroes, Bert and Pen.
All day he lies, wit , closed eyes, upon the I
sofa. Late in the evening he picks up his
crutches and goes off toward the grave yard.
Night comes on, but he does not return. I
pace the verandah watching and waiting for
Men . j/CCvsAj-iir.o me. -. . — - ■—
‘Gq[to bed darling ; I will wait for John,’ I
changed v/ofully after that. Her hair turned
pray during the long sickness that followed.
Yes, Roy was a good deal lik^TSsrt, only hand
somer ; and he bad the sweetest voice I ever
heard.’
Never in all my life have I loved Barbara so
much as when she pays this tribute to the mem
ory of my lost Roy.
I turn away from Barbara and Lila,but en
counter Eve’s sympathizing eyes.
‘I am so sorry. O. Helen, I forgot.*
‘Never mind, dear,* I answer, ‘it is best that
it should be so. I thought I had overcome this
long ago. ’
I walk farther away, and sit down by myself
until I overcome all agitation. When I join the j
girls I find them watching with interest some- i
‘Listen to the roaring of the river. It must
be very high to make so much ’ Eve begins,
bat Mary interrupts her with:
■Helen! Helen? there is some one out on the
front steps.’
•It is Brnne who has crept up there to be
sheltered trom the rain. Wise do*.’ I say.
‘No, no.‘
‘A chair that some of you l9ftout.‘
‘It is no chair. ‘
•Let me see,‘Eve goes to the window by
which Mary stands.
‘It is time ‘o retire.’I sav, yawning. ‘The
fire has burned down to coals. 1
A vivid dish comes, followed by a deep peal
of thunder.
•It is some oue, Helen!,* calls Eve. ‘Come and
see.
•We shall all be murdered! 1 cries Barbara,
hysterically.
I go as Eve bids me; stand waiting for a flash
of lightning to reveal the mysterious figure. I
have not long to wait. The surrounding gloom
is dispelled for an instan*, and I see that it is a
human figure standing out in the rain.
‘It is some one, ‘ I admit unwillingly. ‘Who
on earth is it that wonid come out on such &
night? 1
‘Bert!* Eve’s eyes say, but her lips do not
move,
‘The man we saw in the river, ‘ wails Barbara.
‘Do Barbara, exercise common sense, ‘ I say,
sharply, to my junior. ‘With decision: ‘We
musl go to the door.*
‘For Heaven's sake don't, 1 remonstrates Bar-
bar, clinging to me.
I shake her off. say to Mary and Eve, it is use
less to say anything to Barbara in her present
state.
‘Come, girls, we cannot let them standout
there all night.*
I take up my caudle and go into the hall, fol
lowed at some distance by Eve and Mary. I am
frightened, but bravely hide it from the girls.
Like Poe in his raven, fling the door open, and
beg that ‘Sir, or Madam, will excuse us for not
coming sooner, but we did not hear them •
No one replies; and holding up the light over
my head, peering iuto the dense darkness, I be
hold a ghastly, white face, and staring eyes.
Whether it is Barbara s remark or my own ex
cited imagination, I cannot tell, and do not atop
to ascertain, bnt I think involuntarily of that
ghastly face that floated past us on the current
aud shrink back.
Eve and Mary fly preoipiiaveiy to Barbara.
thing coming down the river. | In the excitement of the moment, I drop my
‘It is a cap,’ Lila cries, exoitedly. j candle, and all is darkness. I am frightened
It is a cap, we see plainly. There is a dread- half to death, so frightened that I cannot move
•Forgive me ! In my heart I have done yon I sa J
great wrong.’ ! ‘I can’t, Helen. L9t me wait with you ? It is
During the long night, we sit by the pla : n, j not kind to you to let you always bear the bur-
black coffin; at last dawn begins to creep up over ! den.'
the sky , morning draws aside the purple cur- ! Tour time may come,’ I reply, sighing,
tains of the east and hangs out roseate banners ; ‘I've been thinking, Helen, that it is better to
of day. The sun smiles broaalv over the world, i be as Valarie is—dead, than to belike John. It
is terrible to die, and such a death,'breaking
into a strong shudder ; ‘but what is life to him ?'
‘Life will yet be sweet to yon, Eve. Yon are
smiles softly and sends one beam to kiss the
face so soon to be shut sway frera its brightness.
Bending over the ccflin we kiss Valarie for
the last time on this earth. Thoughts of John I young, Beit is yet alive and loves you—’
crowd over us as we take our last look. i 'Bert is dead, Helen ! I know it, I feel it! I
•This is for John, darling,’I say, as I kiss the : shall never see him again ” mournfully,
mute lips. i ’Bert is dead ! Bert is dead !' murmurs the
Captain Pendennis go; s with us to the grave, i wind in the tree tops.
He says nothing to ns or we to him. I ‘Bring me a shawl, Eve ; I must go after
Sadly we return to our pillaged homes AI- I John,’ 1 say, after some hours,
ready the flames are wreathing fiery chains j The girl brings me a shawl, throwing it over
around some of them. The smoke rises and ! uiv head I go toward the cemetery. I find, as I
curls, the flumes leap higher and higher, catch- I expected, John sitting by Valerie's grave, rest
ing building after building, until our little vil- j ing his head upon the white head-board,
lage is in one blaze. ‘Dear John, oo not stay here. Come home
Tearful altar ! soaked with Valarie’s heart’s j with me,’ I say putting my arms around him.
blood! j ‘My poor Helen, have you come after me ?' he
Onr bouse and Mrs. Revere’s are the only j asks, tenderly. ‘I did not intend staying away
ones that remain untouched. Ours is spared
because of Valarie, and Mrs. Revere’s because
of its isolation.
At dnsk the soldiers leave, bowing mockingly
to tbe lone chimneys that surmount tLe charred
remains of the village.
As night comes on tbe desolate women, ten in
number, slowl leave their places beside the
burning ruins of happy homes, wend their way
to onr house. Passionate sobs, bitter plaintB,
piteous moans come from lips, from hearts, poor
hearts that have suffered so much.
Children cling to their mothers’ skirts weep
ing from fear and hunger.
it affects Blanche more than any of us. She
walks the floor wringing her hands, weeping
bitteily. She knew several of the men who
have wrought us this ruin.
Out in tbe caim summer night the moon
shines fair, streams over tbe mins, streams
down upon the bowed heads of devoted women.
How long, O my Father, shall we be called
upon to endure this?
Helen, a letter from John to Valarie ! Who
shall open it?' Eve asks, tears streaming from
her eyes.
•J cannot. Eve! I reply, huskily. ‘It is too
much like sacrilege, too much like robbing the
dead.’
•lie ba j not received onr letter surely.’ Bar
bara says, wiping away her fast falling tears.
‘Poor John !' Eve says, biokenly.
LHa leaves the room. Blanche has long since
gone heme, her brother Ik ing paroled.
Eve pats the letter in my lap, buries her face
in her hsnds.
Reverently I break the seal, as one would
touch the dead. A pain goes through me keen
as a knife-thrust. To Valarie John’s letters
were sacred. She had never shown them to us
—i nly parts nearly relating to us.
Slowly I read the impassioned, beautiful
words. He tell her that her face comes to him
upon the battle field, that be hears her voice
above ibe roar ot cannonB and roll of drums.
In a recent skirmish he bas been disabled ; he
paints a bright picture for her loving eyes, for
he will be here soon, for her to nurse him, for
her to be his wife.
His wife ! and death bas claimed her for his
bride ! She is far beyond the reach of John's
loving arms!
God knows best, bnt it is very hard !
“X hear il dow, and o’er and o’er
Eternal greeting* to the dead,
And ‘Are. Are, Are,’ aaid,
‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore.”
“I bold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it. when 1 aorrow most;
•Tia b tter to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.*’
In Memorian.
so long.’
'Come away, John. You are burning with
fever now ; you will be ill.’ I break do«-n sud
denly, and cry out, passionately. ‘John, John,
1 would have died to Lave saved her ! I would
have given my life for L ?rs. ’
‘I know it, Helen. Leave me now. dear. I
will join you out at tbe gate. Stay ! Eve told
me that she left a message for me through you.’
I repeat the last conversation 1 ever had with
Valarie.
‘Your heart’s love, oh my darling,’ he moans.
‘O Valarie, 1 regret nothing if 1 may be called
to you soon. My darling, my own—’
I am beyond the sound of bis voice now, and
wait until he joins me. He is worn and broken
by bie night’s sad vigil, but be leaves us just as
the sun rises over the eastern hills.
September.
Throw away care, Helen ; let retrospection
and the ghosts of our dead past, that stare at. us
so persistently be put aside to-day. We will go
down to the river and call it Lethe. Come,
Lila, get your bonnet.'
Eve leans over the back of my chair as she
speaks, gently caressing my hair with her white
hands.
•Yes, dear, I will go. I wish I could acquiesce
as readily to your other requests,’ I answer.
‘No sighs, Helen ! We are goiug to forget
everything for this one day.
To-morrow, any other time, we will ‘hang our
bar? s on the willows,' but now let us snatch a
briel respite from this burden. Let us forget
the war, onr trucculent enemy, onr poor sol
diers, our brother's sorrow. Pen, Bert our dead,
everything. To-day let us sit like Lolysses and
bts companions among the lotos eaters, and for
get ourselves, be contented, if not happy.’
‘Specious reasoning, Eve. If we can east
aside care to-day the burden will be the heavier
for to-day's forgetfulness.'
We saunter down to the river.
‘This makes me recall these lines of Young :
“ ‘Sweet rural scene
Of flocks and green,
» * * *
All nature still
But yoeder rill,
And list’ning pines nod o'er my head.’ ”
Lila says, sitting down among the rushes that
grow highest up on the bank.
Eve leans agaiost a tree, looking at a pale blue
flower that is
“Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness.”
Butterflies flit past us with their freckled
wings outspread. ‘Rain-scanted eglantine' blow
about in tbe soft breeze.
‘It reminds me,' Eve says, after awhile, of
this—
“ * v f en may come and meu may go,
But I go on lorever.’ ”
ful fear creeping over me, 1 think simultaneous
ly of John and Bert.
‘It is a man!* exclaimed Barbara, hysterically.
We see it too plainly now. Wide staring eyes
looking at ns as it floats past on the current; a
white, fearfully swollen face. s'
‘How awful!* cries Eve, shuddering.
‘C. S. A.,' reads Barbara from the cap*
•We must rescue the body,’ I say faintly.
There is no boat, and we stand silently watch
ing the body drifting down tbe river. It is out
of sight at la3t and we turn to eaoh other.
‘I wonder who he is,* Liia says.
•How can we forget when everything is thrust
upon ns!' exclaims Eve, ‘how %wful he looked!
•He resembled Bert, did h -„-°i, Helen?’ asks
Barbara. ft
‘For Heaven’s sake, Barbnra, show some
sense!' I cry, angrily, as all color leaves Eve's
face, and her eyes look longingly down the
stream, to see if indeed it did look like Bert.
‘What have I done now,’ she simpers.
‘You are tbe most * I pause. I cannot find
a word expressive enongh.
‘Let’s go home, Helen,* Eve says, wearily.
‘I was jast going to say tlnR^*|jila says, as-
‘I am willing,’Barbara sayTsofleniy.
‘And I,’ I say heartily.
We go toward home with heavy hearts. Bar
bara was right; that face bore resemblance to
Bert!
‘You come mighty soon, Miss Helen, ‘ Sylvia
says, meeting us at the door. ‘It is just ten
o’clack. ‘
The clock strikes ton.
October.
We lose both Lila and Dr. Eastis. We lose
them the same week.
Major Andrews comes for a day or two. and
pleads so hard that she will become his wife
that she consents.
They are married and he carries her to Bich-
rnoud to his mother. Before she goes she says
to me:
‘I may tell Maurice that, while Penelope is
worthy in every way to be his wife, she never
will, may I not? He loves her, but he can
forget her. I may tell him the whole truth,
may I not?’
She goes away with her husband and we miss
her very much.
Dr. Eustis goes too, bnt not like Lila. For
many weeks, ever since Valarie’s sad death, he
has ‘been wearing away to the Land o’ the Leal.’
He is gone at last. We make his last resting
place out in the grave yard.
Only three of us remain now out of our once
merry, happy household, only three sad wo
men. Only three women of all the bustling lit
tle village that was onrs before the war.
‘The song of Lamech is mine.’
November.
Drearily, wearily the days pass. Rain falls
incessantly; the wind moans and sobs like some
living thieg.
It is hard to write of disaster! bard to say that
we are overpowered by a relentless enemy.
The world knows, ere this time, what fearful
odds are against us; that innumerable numbers
come from North, East, West,r f.-om across the
ocean, tempted by the gold tbe Federal govern
ment offers recruits.
It is not a lack of valor, want of courage, not
a lack of patriotism that drives the soldiers be
fore them! None of that? Four years of con
tinual struggling, four years of terrible hard
ships, and privations, and exposure, and sick
ness, deaths, have not daunted the valor nor
cooled the patriotism of tbe men who have
sworn tojsnpport and preserve the Confederacy.
These same men who have been defeated so
recently have fought at^Manassas, around Rich
mond, at Sharpsburg, at Fredericksburg, at
Chanoellorsviile, at Gettysburg, from the Wil
derness to James river, part of them with the
imruortai Jackson.
John writes to us often. He bids Eve be
cheerful. Bert will certainly oome back to her.
‘Never, Helen; I shall never see Bert,’ she
says when she reads John’s letter. ‘If be were
alive. Pen would have written to us.’
Up to my mind comes that floating body in
the river.
“Look, my Lord, it ccmeal
Angela and miniatera of grace, defend ual
Be thou a spirit or goblin damned?”
—Hamlet.
January, 1865.
‘It is such a dreadful night,’ Barbara says,
hovering over the fire that burns low on the
hearth. ‘Listen to the wind and rain. It has
rained ever sinoe Christmas.’
‘God pity the poor soldiers who are exposed
to this cold, pitiless rain, ‘ Mary says, turning
away to the window.
Mary is our oonsin, and has been with ns ever
since December.
‘And any one else who is exposed to Its fury,’
I add, giving a vigorous lunge at the glowing
coals.
‘How the wind sobs!’ cries Barbara shivering.
•It is enough to terrify one to death.’
or speak, only stand still and gaze vacantly out
in the dark.
A flash of lightning comes sharp and quick
and I see that tbe figure is moving. I try
to run. It is useless; I can only stand still
and await its eoming.
It is oIobb to me now. I feel its warm breath
on my face, its cold hand on my band, filling
me witn a sensation that prevents me from
fainting and chaining me to to tbe spot where
I stand.
It Is oi my face now. How cold it is, like the
hand of the dead. As frightened as I am, rea
son tells me that no dead person or any gbo3t
has ever yet passed their supernatural fingers
over one’s face. Power of speech does not re
turn, but my willing feet carry me swiftly into
the room where the others huddle over the fire.
•Whatisil?’ cries Barbara. ‘My God! have
you seen a ghost?’
I seat myself, glance apprehensively at the
door.
‘What was it,Hplen?‘ asks Eve eagerly.
Let's shoot it!* cries Barbara, who could not
shoot a gun if her life depended upon it,
‘Did you go to it Cousin Helen?* inquired
| ‘It came to me, and merciful Heaven! there
I it comes now! 1
I say this as a figure appears on the doorway.
| There is a general shriek, a genaral disap-
pearance of my companions. I would give
worlds to follow their example: but I must sus
tain my well won name of being brave: I mnst
face the unknown alone.
I rise to meet whosoever it is, as they continne
to advance. The room is dark save where the
coals glow brightly on the hearth. In the dim
! light, I see that my visitor is a woman.
•You do not know me?* she asks, coming
| within a few feet of me.
‘I think of Blanche Jerome, but this is not her
voice.
‘No, I do not, ‘ I say stiffly.
I clasp the wet figure in my arms, kiss the
cold face, crying, sobbingly:
•Pen! Penelope!*
‘At last! Home at last! 1 she murmurs weari
ly*
I go down upon my knees before the fire,
blowing the crimson coals, and applying wood
and chips.
I dare not ask about Bert. Where is he? Why
did she not bring him?
Somehow, as I kneei before the fire, I connect
Bert with that floating figure. I denounce my
self as an idiot to allow Barbara's silliness to
oome upon me. It clings pertinaciously to me.
1 cannot expel it.
As the flame leaps up the chimney I say:
•Now warm, darling, for you arc very cold. ’
‘This is bo pleasant,* she murmurs.
‘The others ran away from you, Pen,* I say*
trying to langb.
•I heard them. You were frightened, were
you not?’
‘Miserably!’ I cannot restrain myself longer,
I must know the truth. I ask: ‘Where is Bert,
Pen?*
‘Bert, oh Bert!* she gasps, trembling from
head to foot.
‘Did he not come with you? 16 he not com
ing? I ask.
‘Miss Helen, Bert is dead.*
She is sobbing piteously, but the fountain of
my tears are sealed. I have wept so long that I
•Poor Eve!‘ murmurs Mary.
We sit down upon a sofa in the dark, saying
nothing to each other. I hear Barbara’s smoth
ered sobs and wish I could cry.
No sound comes to ns from out tbe dark to
tell us how Eve takes this sorrow.
At last Pen opens the door aid caMs to ns.
She kisses Barbara, bows to Mary as I introduce
her.
‘Where is Lila?‘ she asks, looking expectant
ly iu‘o the ha!!.
•Lila married M>:jor Andrews in the fall,* I
answer.
‘Where is Valarie? 1 she asks, s'.iU looking out
intc the dark ball.
W? stare at t-acli other fora moment, then
Birbara says;
•Did you notknnw that Va'atie was ‘
‘Married to John? I thonrnt so but sup
posed that she would remain with you until the
war closed. *
‘Valarie was shot dead io June P.n, ‘ I say,
sorrowfully.
‘Dead! I will not believe it. It eaunot be!‘
•It is true, nevertheless.*
‘And poor John! My poor John! she mur
murs, over and over.
‘Is broken hearted,* says Barbara,before I
can stop her.
I turn to Eve who lies upon the sofa with her
face bnried in her bands. Barbara is about to
address her, but I shake my head and silence
her garrulity.
Penelope is too tired to talk much, but to
Barbara’s question about Blanche Jerome, she
says:
•I accidentally met her on the oars. I knew
her almost instantly, she is so much like her
brother. She gave me a letter of introduction
to some frit nds of liers in Delaware City, friends
to the Southern cause expressed the wish that I
might accomplish the eirand on which I came.
I sent her to Miss Helen. I have never seen or
heard of her since. •
‘Why have you never written, Pen?* I ask, re
proachfully.
‘I was afraid that my letters might be opened.
Afterward I thought to come before a letter
con Id reach vou.’
‘Where have you been all this time?’ Barbara
inquires.
‘In Delaware City, Washington, in Baltimore,
lastly in Ri tbmond.’
•How I envy you“ cries Barbara pensively.
•One quite feels like a heathen when one has
been so long away from ’
‘Time to go to bed, ‘ I interrupt, shortly.—
‘Come, darling, you must go. ‘
Eve lifts up her bead as I speak to her. She
makes no moan, utters no cries, but my heart
aches as I see that lovely, miserable face. She
rises, goes slowly and wearily out of the room.
Penelope follows her soon. Barbara, Mary
and I sit long over the fire. At last we retire.
In the morning Pen tells this: Bert escaped
from his prison with three others. He was ma
king his way home to Eve, when he was cap
tured by some yankee infantry. In trying to
ercape them, while crossing river, he
was shot. This much she learned from papers
and friends.
That river sounds now in my ears, that river
rushes through the meadows and under trees
over which I have so often passed, under which
I have so often stood.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Historical Hates.
Chemistry was introduced into Europe by the
Spanish Moors about 1150.
The first theatre ever established in America
was at Williamsburg, Va„ September 1752.
The ’ of St Cnthfcert, the earliest orna
mental book, is supposed to have been bound
in the year 650.
Boston harbor was closed by the English Par
liament, on account of the ‘Great Tea Party,’
March 25, 1774.
John Gully, a London butcher and prize fight
er, became a member of Parliament in 1835. He
died in 1863.
The first public library of which we have any
record was founded at Athens by Pisistratus 544
years before Christ.
One of the punishments inflicted by Ro*
man law 300 years before Christ, was to be bur-
eid alive, and this was sometimes enforoed.
Sebastian Cabot discovered Newfoundland-
June 24th, 1497. He called it ‘Prima Vista.’ It
was formerly taken possession of by Sir Henry
Gilbert in 1.583.
The invention of the pianoforte is claimed gby
a Father Wood, an English monk at Rome, in
1711. The earliest appearance of the instru
ment in England was at Covent-Garden Theatre,
in 1730.
In 1852 the people of Brooklyn, N. Y., crossed
for some days from tuence to New York on the
ice,as well as from other sections of Long Island
and Jersey shore.
Regular voyagers of steam vessels were not
commenced in crossing the Atlantic ocean nntil
1838, when the Sirius and Great Western com
menced their trips.
The French entered the city of Moscow, Sept.
14th, 18(2, and here Napoleon intended to make
his winter quarters, but it was wholly comsumed
within a week from the date named.
In 1667, war having broken out between Eng
land and Holland, tne Dutch appeared in the
harbor of New York with a fleet, but in place of
opening their guns on the Eaglish colony, they
opened their purses and bribed the officer com
manding and thus quietly took possession of tbe
city and province.
can weep no longer.
‘When, Pen?*
‘Last September.*
‘Last September! It was in September that
we were down by the river.
‘I sit down on the rug—no, we have no rug
now—aDd gently rub her cold hands.
I think of Evehiding out in the dark.
‘Pen, you must tell Eve: I cannot. ‘
‘Does she love him? Oh, MtsS Helen, he
loved berjso. ‘
‘Shall I call her now, Pen? Are you strong
enongh to bearit?*
‘Yes. Better have done with it,* she replies,
drearily.
I go to the hall, call, softly:
•Eve! Eve!‘
‘Here I am. Was it a ghost?' half ashamed of
her flight
‘Go in there; some one is waiting for you.*
‘Bert! Bert! is it Helen?*
Her faoe is so eager that I cannot find in my
heart to tell her. I open the door and pass into
the dark hall.
‘Who is it. Cousin Helen?’ Mary asks, as 1
stumble over her in the dark.
•Penelope!*
•Who, Helen?* Barbara inquires, coming for
ward.
‘Penelope!*
‘Where is Bert, Helen? In the parlor too?*
‘Dead, Barbara!*
‘Dead in the Parlor, Helen?’
In imagination I can see Barbara's face as she
asks this.
‘Not in the parlor, Barbara, I answer.
‘Dead! it mast be a mistake,* she says.
‘Penelope has just told me.*
When a man visits Paris he ought to make
himself acquainted with at least two or three
phrases of the new lauguage. A friend of ours,
who is delightfully innocent of French said, the
other day, that his sympathies were profoundly
stirred for the coachmen of the great metropo
lis. Whenever he paid his tare the cocher in
variably looked at him with a sad gaze, held
out his baud and remarked, -pour boy’ (Pour-
boire.) He said he had never seen so many
•poor boys' together in all his life. This re
minds us of another anecdote of the same kind.
While on the journey from Chamonni te Geneva
the passengers in the diligence were constantly
leased for pennies. A little girl emptied her
parse on the road and then complained to her
mother that the children did not even thank
her for her gifts, bnt simply cried out, ‘Mercy !
mercy !’ (Jferci, merci )
—
A gentleman who recently traveled over a cer
tain railroad, which it might excite jealousy to
mention by name, declared his opinion that it is
the safest road in the country, as the superin
tendent keeps a boy running ahead of the trains
to drive eft the oalves and sheep.
•In Cork,* paid 0‘Connel, ‘I remember a su
pernumerary crier, who had been put in the
place'of an invalid, trying to disperse the crowd
by exclaiming with a stentorian voice: ‘All you
blackguards that isn’t lawyers, lave the presence
of the court entirely, or I‘11 make ye, by the
powers.“
Probaby the mild-eyed goat is the only ani
mal ever invented that can eat twenty-four
hours a day, and then get up an hour before
day and devour a flour barrel and seven old
fruit cans for a lunch.
:523^1