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My lover! oil, fair word for maid to hear! My lover, who was yesterday my friend! Oh, strange we did not. know !)■ fore how near Our stre m of life smoothed to its fated end! Shine, star of eve, as Love’s self, bright and clear; Shine, little star, and bring my lover here! He comes! I hear ihe echo of his feet, He comes! I fear to stay, I cannot go Oh, Love, that thou art shame-faced, bitter-sweet. Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe! Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws near- Shine, little star. a. d bring my lover here! FAIRIE BEALL; OR A Revengeful Romananee BY KE8A. “Oh! mother, mother, here is the tent of the Gyp sies, Saruh was telling about!’ I thought we should find it!” “But I thought no such thing Fame, or I should never have come with you this morning I thought we were only to hunt for ferns and mosses for your hanging baskets. Come away at once.” ‘•Oh! mother not before we get a glimiwe at the ;,!k. \e i'f • d of tin xf 1 of*. •! and <*■-;•»> , tures of hem that were so pretty and romantic.” ’ “Your father will be very angry with you Fairie “Papa angry with me!'' exclaimed the pretty girl, who was the petted darling of tho handsome weli-to-do farmer, her father, as well as of her gen tle mother. „ .. “Yes Fairie: he hates a Gypsy worse than he does a snake. He will not let them camp on his land.” “And why mother! That seems strange when father is so good to everyone.” ... Tr He has a reason and a very painful one. He CHINESE LADY OF RANK AND HER ATTENDANTS. I sec the valley clods dispart, To close above a broken heart.” at the gypsy camp, home ma mere." “Ladies, snail 1 tell your fortune r Both turned at the sound of the shrill but not unmusical voice, and saw a tall, dark-skinned black- haired woman, handsome but worn and hollow- eyed standing liefore them. In her leaf-brown dress wrapped around with a scarlet scarf and with a red and yellow kerchief thrown over her long half-loose hair, she seemed a part and parcel of the October woods. _ “Pray let me tell your fortune pretty maid,” she said approaching Fairie and laying a swarthy but shapely hand upon the girl’s arm. Mrs. Beall, taken by surprise and timidly alarmed, had fallen The gypsy P'A her finger on her temple, eyed the girl with her keen, fascinating eyes, and chanted “I'll tell your future bright and fair. As the golden tinge of your nut brown hair, I'll tell of a lover, fearless and bold, If you'll cross the Gypsy’s palm with gold.” “Ob' yes do tell my fortune” said Fairie ex tending her hand, but the Gypsy drew back and said coldly. . “The charm will not work if you do not cross my palm with gold.” “Oh I forgot, instead of being a fairy god mother, vou are a mercenary Gypsy Queen. Here is some silver coin I have no gold. Will that do to set your charm to work!” said Fairie laughing. The woman bowed as she seized the money and dropping it into a lnad pocket suspended by- a red cord to her waist. She grasped Fairies hand and carefully studying the palm, said: “A life—” . . . .. “But stop, most gracious queen, you must tell ine something of my past life, before I can credit your power of penetrating the future.” *A look of scorn Hashed from her jetty eyes, hut liemliii”- over the hand, she looked at it long and earnestly. Presently, she muttered “I see a child in woodland bowers, Now we’re near to hear her cry; No friends to cheer, but birds and flowers, But a stranger would not let her die.” “You will have to invoke your charms again Gypsy Queen,” said Fairie, “I’m not a child found in the woods.” “Come away Fairie,” gasped Mrs. Beall, who ap peared much agitated. , , “Not just yet mama, I ve not had the worth of my money Try again and see if you make as great a mistake, in my future as you did m my i>a.st life. Here is another bit of silver,” said she appeasmgly for she saw the Gypsv was angry. The woman ap peared mollified and again taking tho young lady’s baud, exclaimed,— “Your sky is now bright, But clouds will soon rise; Your heart is now light. But happiness soon flies: Though storms will come, Despondent you’ll be; Yet girl, there’s in store Great happiness for thee.” “Thank your majesty. Now mother come and have your fortune unfolded” cried the gil l seizing her mother’s hand. , , . “No Fairie. I do not think it right to try to look into the future.” , , ... , ... “Pshaw! mother do you lielieve she is gifted with second sights? She will tell anything to get money,” whispered Fairie. “But do dear mama gratify me, for I am anxious to know what she “jlnf Beall at last reluctantly consented, and ex tended her hand to the fortune-teller, who taking it ,1 dropping on her knees by the lady, annost n/U’lral he hand with her sw -ruiy “I'"'- i..using be: nead and throwing back her long black hair she said: “I see a home by sorrow broken, I see a form by death o’er taken ; “Oh! whv did I consent to tempt Providence?” murmured Mrs. Beall, leaning ujion Fairie, pale and half fainting. “I am punished for my sinful ness.” Darling mother you do not believe what that ignorant vwirn said? She was wovnked with ine and wand-d \!o say something unpleasant; do hot thi-.kof it again. Come let us go home.” Fairie placed her arm around her mother, who seemed much shaken. The fortune-teller had disappeared as suddenly as she came. When they arrived nt home, little Ruby came bounding to meet them, exclaiming: “Oh mama where have you and sister been so long? Papa wants us to go with him to the new mill. It has begun work so nicely. But what is the matter mama?” “Nothing my pet, only mama has a headache, she walked too far.” “Come and lie down my dear,” said Mr. Beall coming to meet her. “You look pale. Fairie I will forbid your mother going with you again, you must remember she can’t scale rocks, and leap ditches, and climb trees like you—you madcap ” “I behaved quite soberly this morning papa. We came suddenly on”—but a warning glance from Mrs. Beali caused her to make some evasive reply, as they entered the house. “Make haste papa, and let’s go,” said Ruhv. “I want to see the little fishes in tiiat pond that has so many water lilies in it,” and catching her father’s hand she hurried him towards the door. “Wait for me. little Hurry-scurry,” Fairie said, taking her little sister in her arms. Mrs. Beall went to her room and layidown to rest, while Farie, haing darkened her mother’s cham ber, went with her father and sister to the mill. As they approached it. they came upon a man or more properly speaking a Ixiy, for lie appeared not to he more than eighteen, lying behind a fallen tree, looking as if he had been asleep, and just then awoke. He wore short blue trousers ami a brown roundabout, the worse for wear. His black hair fell on his neck. He sprang to his feet with a startled look in his black eyes, shaded by heavy brows. “What are you doing here prowling around my premises, you Gypsy vagal Kind!” cried Arnold Beall his face becoming red and his hand clinching. The man’s eyes gleamed furtively as he replied— “I came to ask you to give me a little meal, or to let me work in your mill, I am hungry and have nothing to eat.” “You are hungry, and with nothing to eat are you? A pretty tale for one as robust as you, who prefer’s a vagabonds life of pilfering and begging instead of earning an honest living.” “I am willing to work and have tried to find something to do, but all distrust the gypsy dog,” said the man bitterly. “All are right too, get away with you, I have mi employment for such as you. I would not trust my mill in your care, for treachery is a natural trait in the character of your race.” “I am willing to work.” “Begone! I say, I will not parley with you,” said Mr. Beall. “Oh papa!’”said Fairie, “don’t lie so hard on the man. "Try him, give him work, and if he does not please you you can send him off.” “Fairie you do not know what you are saying, the treachery of the snake lurks in the veins of his race.” “God bless you young lad}-. But curses follow your father,” said the Gypsy as he stalked away muttering, and soon disappeared in the dense woods. “Oil father! how <_ould you talk to any one so,” said Fairie looking in the direction the man went. “Fairie, your tender heart can never conceive or imagine the hatred I feel for one of the detested race. Years ago, when I was quite a small l>oy, and my brother Edward just two years younger, a baud of Gipsys were encamped near my father's. Among them was a man and a sma!! babe. My brother and I stole away one day and went to their camp. Edward being of a mischievous nature, played a prank on the man, which he never forgave. A few days after he came to my father, and like this one expressed his willingness to earn an honest living, put; ing up a sorrowful plea of not getting employment. My father agreed to take him, and he immediately went to work, and no fault could lie found of him, either in lalior or demeanor. He had lieen there several weeks, when one morning ho and Edward could nowhere be found; they had gone to carry the horses to the meadow and were returned. Mv futlier, growing uneasy, sent me to search for them. I saw the horses in the meadow quietly grazing hut Edward or Roger could nowhere U* seen. I shouted for them, but no an- "c on which I was a brush-pile, when, oh my God! though it has been I “And what are you going to do with him, papa? thirty years since then, my soul sickens at the | I did not think he could do such a mean crime." theught of the sight that then met my eyes. My darling brother, my mother's idol, was lying there with his head severed from his body, his golden locks clotted with blood. I knew the Gypsy was the dastardly murderer. And tun a ud there I vowed eternal enmity to the i. v> brother’s G d.v V»*f.V\ I ,t >■ , a it tile day of death, my mother’/ sitriek i i she fell in convulsions upon the body of her munlered child. She was in delicate health, and the shwk killed her in a week. My father did not long survive the double loss, and so the hand of a Gypsy devil made me an orphan and brotherless, and gave a shock to my mind it has never recovered from.” Mr. Beall’s features were convulsed with passion. “And now,” said he, “Fairie, you have the cause of my hatred of the Gvpsy race.” “it is dreadful. Your poor, innocent little brother. But what became of the man, papa?” “It is pleasure for me to tell. Two years after wards I saw his iKwly quivering in the air sus 'end ed by a hangman's rope. But come,” said he, “let us go up the hill,” for they had seated themselves on a large rock, ltuhy lieing busy playing with the little fishes. Fairie praised the mill to his heart’s content, but her thoughts often turned to the Gyp sy boy who hud uttered blessings and curses in the same breath. Returning home, they found Mrs. Beall much refreshed, but with a despondent look that puzzled her husliami. “What is the matter, Mary?” he said. “What is it that has disturbed you? You look anxious and sad, as if you expected some calamity to befall you.” “Oh, hush! Do not say that,” said she, quickly. “ What has happened to her, Fairie?” continued Mr. Beall. “What did you see in the woods? I came across a suspicious character myself, while on our way to the mill. I mean the Gypsy, and had better notify the miller to keep a sharp look-out, tin* race is so revengful and treacherous.” He rungabell fora servant, dispatching him with the message, and bidding hint remain all night, and the two sleep together ill the mill-house. Mr. Beall had scarcely returned to the room where Fairie and her mother tiad remained while lie had gone to see the servant off to the mill, when Jacob, the miller’s son, entered with much hurry and impatience. “What is t .e matter, Jacob?” said Mr. Beall, alarmed. “We have caught him. sir,” gasped the boy, as he sank into a chair handed him by Fairie. “Caught whom?” “A man tiiat was trying to set the mill afire. We came uikhi him witli a bundle of lig^twood splinters. He had put him down in a corner of the bin and was jipst striking a match when we nabbed him. Father fired as he run and shot him in the foot. “Curse him, I wish it had been in his heart,” ex claimed Arnold Beall, as lie hurriedly left the house. CHAPTER II. A rapid walk of a few moments brought Mr. Beall to the mill, where Thomas, the miller, was keeping guard over the detected culprit, who was seated in one corner, with his foot wrs rudely IkiuikI with a portion of his handkerchief, and his hands firmly tied. “Aha? it is you, is it? you Gypsy devil? Just as I expected,” hissed Beall. “I knew you were bent on mischief when you were prowling like a thief that you are around here, professing your willing ness to work.” “You drove me to it,” said the man, sulkily. “If you had given me work, or even refused me re- spectfully, instead of treating me as if I was a dog, I’d never thought of harming you.” "Well, I am in hopes now you will learn an occu pation that is not so dangerous to your personal safety, under the skillful managers of the State prison, or ehaiilgang.”said Mr; Beall, grimly. “The only regret I have is I cannot have you swung on the gallows.” “Yes, as my grandfather swung,” said the Gipsy between his clenched teeth. “Thirty years ago, through your persevering lust for revenge, though then a mere child, you, Arnold Beall caused my grandfather to die on the gallows.” “So you are the grandson of that arch fiend, but do not mention that atrocious crime, or 1 will break the bounds of prudence by swinging you up with out judge or jury. Thomas, order horses to carry this tramp to his new quarters, there to await liis trial.” Mr. Beall, after seeing the Gypsy off, firmly bound so as to prevent the possibility of escape, slowly rode back home. Fairie, seeing him ap proach, ran to meet him, saying: •Oh! papa, who was it tried to burn your nuB ? ‘It was the Gvpsv boy who so enlisted vour lie savs I insulted liis dignity “I told you treachery and revenge was a twin bond to their souls. Vour head was filled with stories of the romantic and noble gypsies that often turned out to be stolen prine es. You will find nothing of the kind among the theivmg, treacher ous race.” . V ; -,/ii*‘hil* —: /. do me n*jnstify. T did fee I sorry for the boy, and thought perfyips by some i encouragement he would prove that all his race were not the! theiving, revengeful beings you think them." “This fellow wont have much romance left about him when he has been six or seven years in the chaingang.” “Oh, father? you surely are not going to send him there!” cried Fairie. “Yes, my dear, I shall do all in my power to do so, and if I could, I would send him to a land per- hajis more disagreeable, at least in warmth ,’ "Oh, mama, who is that?” said Ruby, running to her mother. All looked to the door and saw the the tall form of the gyi«y fortune-teller standing on the threshold. She was dressed as the day lie- fore when Fairie and her mother met her in the woods, only the scarlet cape was on her head which gave her a" wierd look. Advancing toward Mr. Beall, she said in low, penetrating tones: “Arnold Beall, Magdala, the Gypsy, comes to lieg mercy from the handjof the white man. I came to ask you to have compassion on my boy. Oh, sir.” said she, in a soft and and entreating tone, “have pity on him. Oh! let him not be sent to prison for years, and i>erhui>s at last die in its walls. Release him, sir, aml|we will forever leave the country, and bless you for your mercy.” Mr. Beall frowned darkly. “Release him to have him burn my house, and perhaps send a bullet through my heart when I least expect it.” “He is young, it is the first crime heevercom- mitted. Oh! listen to and pity a mother’s agony. Spare my child, he is my all," said she. She fell on her knees and clasped her dark hands imploring ly. “Spare him, and a mother’s blessings will ever follow you.” “Spare your eloquence, woman. I tell you, now, that boy shall suffer for liis attempted crime, and would to God I could implicate you and all your accursed race,^letting you share his sufferings and labors of the prison life.” The Gypsy sprang to her feet, her eves glaring. “Arnold Beall, it is the first time 1 ever knelt to man. I iM*ggedjf r the life of my only child. You refused my prayer, and spurned me as you would a worm. You mock my distress. I have implored, now I curse. I swear by the God you profess to worship, that you shall endure all the agony I now feel. Arnold Beall, I curse you; my curses shall follow you to the grave. We will meet again. I w arn you, beware. Revenge shall be my watch word!” and she left the room, leaving her hearers mute under the spell of terror her curse inspired. Mr. Beall was the first to recover. “I must fol low her,” he said, “she will do us some great inju re.” and quickly summoning his servants, he start ed jn pursuit, but no trace of her could be found. Mr Beall returned, feeling more uneasiness and concern than he chose to express, and tried to laugh away his wife’s fears, that the enraged Gypsy, would wreak some dreadful re\enge on them. “Do not let it trouble you, dear wife,” he would say: “she was enfuriated by my firm refusal, and thought to scare us into doing as she wanted. I dare say she is far enough awny following her son t<> prison. She knows I will tie on the alert and will punish severely anything approaching to inju ry and crime.” “1 don’t see, father, how you could resist tier prayers ” said Fairie, the tears standing in her eyes, as she thought of the mother pleading for her only child. . . , “It is well, my daughter, my heart is made of firmer stuff thaii yours, or every vagabond house- burner, or demented old woman that tells a pitiful tale or’sheds a few tears, would find an asylum m my house and protector through my leniency,” said Mr. Beall, tartly. . . . Fairie winced under his sareastic reproof, but made no reply. “Do, Mr. Beall be cautious, for that woman looked so wild and fierce. She seemed a prophetess of evil. I feel confident she will try to do you some serious injury,” said Mrs. Beall. “I will look out,” he replied, “for the tigeress, and woe unto them if I should catch any of the race prowling around my premises.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) s<vcr. At last, uiscending the liaiii-. — --—.. - ..—, , . . « . . standing, I saw the fragments of a red handker- j byspeakinir roil dilv to * him, and he thought to chief, which linger always wore around his neck. | s 'P eJkln ~ ' V, ' Stooping to pick it up, I accidentally looked under ,v l”' nt ll ’ The Lutheran church of St. Michael, in Moscow, the oldest Protestant church in Russia, has just cel ebrated the close of its third century. All the Protestant churches of Russia sent delegates to the festival. They had wandered down from Vicksburg. One of them was a gentleman. His elegant dress his graceful manner, his aristocratic form, refined face, and shapely white hands, proclaimed that fact at a glance. He was a gentleman of the old school. A gentleman of that old school in which Cain was the first pupil. A gentleman of ttie old school of rascality and crime. Everybody, from fur up the river, down to its mouth, knew LeRoy Devreaux. “Whistling Lee” was the name bestowed upon him by his intimates. When he tilted back his chair after a lucky “hand” in a game of draw-poker when the stakes were high, and puckered his mouth, the silvery notes rushed from liis lips with a sweetness anil correct ness perfectly wonderful. Sometimes it was a strain from the ojtera; sometimes, one of those rollicking, devilish tunes heard so often on steamers that ply the lower Mississippi; sometimes it was a refrain from the mellow choruses of the deck-hands; some times, when ill a despondent mood, wcasioned by bad luck, it was the “Sweet Bye and Bye,” or “Rest for the Weary,” in tones tremulous and low. Many a time has the dealer, with the divided pack lifted high above the table, paused, forgetful of the game, to catch the concluding notes of some old tune as it came forth with perfect melody from the puckered lips of “Whistling Lee.” He was a gentleman. The blood of eight centu ries of French cavaliers, undefileil by a single drop of plebean mixture, coursed through liis veins. Since the early settlement of Louisiana, his people had lived, in affluence and ease, on the bank of the Red river. The noble halls of his princely family hail once resounded with the merry laughter of highborn belles and dames, anil with the manly tones of lordly planters, whose voices were now for ever hushed. Those same halls had been the scene of muny a princely festivity among the old planters Now only a heap of blackened ruinsmarked the spot where, onee had stood his ancestral home. The estate had fallen into the hands of stran gers, and LeRoy Devereaux, the last of his house, was a gentleman gambler, plying his trade along the Mississippi. The other man was a slouehy looking fellow of huge frame and forbidding countenance. He was a | It!.. • rj . f i»>f. *■’, it s Who If-ITlt the wharvet m the larger cities aloig rly* river, and who are read}’ to employ their time and talents in developing any scheme of meanness. The yellow fever epidemic in the South had been raging for months. The whole of the country from Memphis to the coast was paralyzed, and the re gard paid either to law or order was small indeed. These two gentleman, Whistling Lee .and his com panion, tired by philanthropic ardor, had volunteer ed their services to nurse tiie sick at Vicksburg. Their lalxirs were not long. The citizens of Vicks burg had discovered some irregularities in the con duct of these two noble volunteers. Small articles of jewelry, watches, and money, had found their way from the private receptacles of sundry patients sick with the fever, into the keeping—everlasting keeping—of these two aids of the Howards. The citizens of Vicksburg had gently remonstrated with them, and had mildly hinted that their services were no longer needed. The citizens of Vicksburg were a cold and unsympathizing people, and after their gentle remonstrance and mild hints,had not al lowed these two gentleman, whose hearts were bul>- bling over with the milk of human kindness, to tar ry. but had hurried them out of the town upon a stout rail, leaving them in the woods near the river with the injunction not to return. They felt a thorough and ail abiding dislike for thosecitizens of Vicksburg, and were anxious to cross the river in order to be separated from them by the deep waters of the mighty stream. They had wandered down the river, vainly searching for a boat, and had reached Deadman’s Bend at daylight. Along the Mississippi shore of Headman's Bend was a narrow strip of white sand. Back beyond this lay the thick undergrowth of a dense swamp. Ono or two sluggish sloughs oozed their black anil miry way through the rank weeds and tall grass of the swamp, and found outlets through the sand into the river. The dismantled wreck of a steamboat lay imbedded in the sand near the lower end of the Bend, and here and there huge logs, branches of trees, and piles of drift of all descriptions, lay scat tered about. A solemn stillness prevailed, and a scene of more utter desolation would be difficult to find. Near the wreck of the steamboat a large flat, with a sort of wooden house or cabin built upon it, hail drifted, and lodged in the sand. “Paril, thet's what we want!” exclaimed the man of the slouehy figure, pointing to a boat tied behind the flat. “You are right, old fellow!” responded “Whist ling Lee,” that's the thing that will put us beyond the reach of that set of cold blooded devils back there in Vicksburg!” “I reckon we mought es well look inter that fiat while we’re pi ikin' abimt," the other man said. "Ther mought lx* somethin’ in thar wuth takin’ along.” “You are a careful man, Blank! Your wife, if you have one, ought to be thankful that she has a husband who always looks out tor ’something to take along!” responded “Whistling Lee” to this sug gestion. "By all means, let’s go through the old hulk. There may, at least, lie something to eat in side.” The man addressed as Blank, who, if he had ever possessed another name, never made it known to his friends, had already begun to climb upon the flat. Whistling Lee followed with all possible ex- pedition. They entered the cabin. “Well, here is a go!” said Whistling Lee. The discoveries which he had made by a glance around the interior of the cabin were enough to ause his exclamation of surprise. Around the sides were arranged shelves and counters, the first being well filled with a miscellaneous assortment of giKKls. Clothing, groceries, tin-ware, clocks—in fact, everything necessary to a floating peddler’s shop, were there. “We’ve jumped into a regular cross-roads’ shop on water! Where is the owner of tliis craft!” “ ’Pears like the owner has gone a fishing,’ said Blank. It's a good time, while^he’s out, to drive a a Iwrgain or two.” “It's a good time to do something better than that, my hearty,” said Whistling Lee. “We will claim this concern by right of discovery, and I tell you my mud-cat, its a step or two ahead of any thing we did back there in Vicksburg. Let’s look about and make an inventory.” “All right. Pal’d! PH go down—” A deep groan interrupted Mister Discoverer Blank. ••’.Vila’, k'- i- •:!'-; • '-.id Whistling Lee, with a slight tinge i u ;«.v voice. Continued on 8th page.